


From Ashes

by Mareepysheepy



Category: South Park
Genre: Adult Content, Aged-Up Character(s), Catholic Guilt, Demonic Possession, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hope, I think the youngest character is about 30, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Craig/ Thomas, Past Drug Use, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Acceptance, but with a twist, imp tweek, youth pastor craig
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 12:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 99,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13764651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mareepysheepy/pseuds/Mareepysheepy
Summary: The truest temptation comes not from the demon, but from the man left behind.—Craig’s life changes dramatically the day his trusted friend and colleague asks him to perform an exorcism.For better or worse, he isn’t sure. All he knows is that Tweek Tweak is making him question everything. Even his faith.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [复燃 (From Ashes)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870574) by [edaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edaa/pseuds/edaa)



“ _Deus meus_ ,”

 His knees ache but he refuses to stand. The dull throb is welcome. It is deserved.

 “- _ex toto corde paenitet me_ _  
_ _omnium meorum peccatorum_ ,”

He’s lost. Oh God help him, he is so lost.

“- _eaque detestor, quia peccando,_  
_non solum poenas a Te iuste_ _  
_ statutas promeritus sum,”

His back screams in pain, begging him to straighten, to stretch, to _move_ from this horrid, crone-like curve. He ignores it. He doesn’t deserve the respite. He doesn’t deserve to be freed from the pain.

“- _sed praesertim quia offendi Te,”_

His hands are clammy with sweat, the metal of his rosary warmed so hot it feels like molten between his palms, the crucifix biting into him.

 _“-summum bonum_ ,”

His eyes are clenched shut and he tastes cold sweat on his lips. He doesn’t pause to swallow. His mouth is so dry, he fears he’ll choke if he does. 

“- _ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris._ ”

His voice fills his ears. He thinks it fills the chancel, perhaps even the entire church, low and soft and desperate. So unlike him. No trace of his usual easy, deadpan sarcasm. None of the man that his congregation have come to know is in that voice. It belongs instead to the man he has spent years running from. It's finally caught him, clinging to his limbs like treacle.

“ _Ideo firmiter propono_ ,”

He prays for answers for why he’s like this. Prays for strength. For guidance.

“- _adiuvante gratia Tua,_ ”

Wishes he hadn’t seen God’s power with his own two eyes. Felt Him with his soul. Knows he can’t turn away now. He can’t half ass it anymore, getting by with weak faith and bitterness; a poor masquerade of a priest. Wanting what he shouldn’t. Wanting more than God’s love.

“- _de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique_ ,”

Love is supposed to be beautiful. It's supposed to be pure, like touching the divine. But it’s not supposed to be for _him_ . His love is supposed to be for God alone. Not for another. Not like _that._

“- _occasiones proximas fugiturum._ ”

Love feels like failure. It feels like blissful, twisting, beautiful, sickening failure. It feels like sin, and it feels like heaven.  It feels like being so terribly lost, and it feels like finally coming home.

“ _Amen.”_

Sucking in a heavy breath, Craig lifts his eyes to the altar, searching (always, always searching). After a moment he bows his head, slips his eyes shut, and begins praying once again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Actus Contritionis_  
>  Act of Contrition
> 
> O MY God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.


	2. Chapter 1

In the quiet of the room the soft clunk of porcelain on wood is almost deafening.

Father Maxi quietly huffs with laughter. It’s little more than a soft gush of air through his nose, but it loosens some of the tension in Craig’s shoulders.

There’s been tension in the room ever since Father Maxi unexpectedly showed up. Craig noticed him slip in towards the end of Sunday sermon, taking a seat on one of the furthest pews. He’d tried not to let it fluster him - he isn’t one for open displays after all - but he had spent the rest of his sermon feeling scrutinised and hoping he wouldn’t screw up.

“You know, most priests have a china set ready for company, Craig,” Father Maxi comments.

Craig glances down at the NASA mug and snorts. “I’m hardly a picture of the average priest.”

At that, Father Maxi openly laughs, and with it, the last strains of tension ease that little bit more. “No, that you’re not. And the better for it too. God appreciates us being true to ourselves.”

“I’m not sure God would appreciate me being _fully_ true to myself,” Craig responds dryly, lifting his own mug to take a chug of coffee. Father Maxi gives him a soft, pitying sort of look and goes to say something. Craig waves his hand to stop him. “I know. He’s testing me. I get it. Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t suck.”

“A good priest isn’t someone who is totally pure, Craig. Some of the best priests I’ve met have overcome great personal demons. Who better to guide others than someone who has seen darkness and faced it down?”

Craig says nothing, lifting his mug to hide the grimace he wears. He knows Father Maxi means well, but that doesn’t ease the fact the institution he’s part of considers the man he fights against being an abomination. He knows God likes to test his flock, but Jesus Christ -forgive him, Lord- tests righteously suck.

“How are you finding things, Craig?” Father Maxi asks warmly. He’s probably sensed Craig’s wandering thoughts. He’s always had good intuition like that. It’s what makes him such a good priest where Craig is such a bad one. Father Maxi is a people person through and through. It never fails to make Craig feel like he’s pretending at what he does.

“Things are alright. The congregation are nice enough. Nothing too shocking. Impure thoughts, an affair here and there. Couple of kids cheating on their last tests. A few of them like to tell me how much they miss you.”

Father Maxi chuckles. “Now, see. I get the opposite. I get ‘ _oh, Father, it’s so nice to have someone so young and handsome leading the congregation.’_ ” Craig grimaces. He’s seen his congregation. “I’m not a vain man. God made me the way I am, but I must confess that it stings slightly.”

Craig can’t help but smile a bit as the old bastard laughs at his own joke. He’s always been fond of Father Maxi. He’s a good sort. The sort that believes firmly that only God can judge and that God is full of love. It’s a breath of fresh air when compared to the great number of their colleagues who seem to be stuck in the fire and brimstone of the dark ages.

They drink in silence for another couple of minutes until Craig starts to grow annoyed. He has little patience - another trait that makes him ill-suited for his calling - and the fact there’s clearly something Father Maxi needs to say is setting Craig’s nerves on edge. He’s not a particularly anxious person, but the only thing that comes to mind is that someone has falsely accused him of acting on his desires. Which is totally not fucking fair because he’s been keeping all that solidly in check.

“Father why did you come today?” Craig asks. He tries to keep the irritation from his voice, but when he hears it it’s clear that he’s failed miserably.

Father Maxi purses his lips and fiddles with the mug. For a long moment, Craig fears the next words that clearly need to be said.

“I need you to have an open mind,” Father Maxi says, looking up from the mug and directly into Craig’s eyes. Craig startles. It’s not what he was bracing himself to hear at all.

“I’m a science major who turned to the faith,” Craig replies by way of answer.

“You and I both know the two are not mutually exclusive, Craig. Some of the greatest priests in history were scientists and vice versa.”

Craig clicks his tongue. He isn’t wrong, but it answers nothing. “I appreciate the lesson, but it doesn’t explain why you want me to keep an open mind.”

“I need you to keep an open mind _because_ you value science so much, Craig. You’re a man of God, but your mind still turns to science first. For this I’m going to need you to think with trust and faith alone. Your heart and not your head, so to speak.”

Craig folds his arms, subconsciously defensive, and softly huff. “I’d argue my faith is stronger because I _do_ question what I see. I value what I experience because I don’t put it down to mystery and magic. That complexity is what I find beautiful and awe-inspiring.”

Father Maxi sighs softly. It’s not a disappointed sound, more one of resignation. “I appreciate that, Craig, and I do agree with you to some extent, but there really is more to this world than we can explain with science.”

“Father Maxi, with all respect - and I do very much respect you - I don’t think you’re here to discuss the role of science in theology.”

“No, I’m not,” Father Maxi says with sudden gravity. There’s seniority there and in that moment, Craig feels a little humbled.

“Okay,” Craig says. It comes out meekly, which he kicks himself for. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you need me to keep an open mind about?”

Father Maxi pauses again, frowning lightly in thought. It’s clear that he’s constructing how to phrase whatever it is he needs to say. “Craig…” he says finally, “what do you know about demons?”

Craig blinks once. Scowls. “I know people like to refer to shit like alcoholism, drug addiction and being a pervert as ‘inner demons’.” God knows - literally, perhaps - he’s full of them himself.

“That’s not what I asked you,” Father Maxi replies, patient.

“No, it’s not,” Craig says slowly. “What I know is that people are responsible for the evil in their hearts and that using the devil as an excuse is a fucking cop-out.”

Father Maxi doesn’t even flinch at the casual drop of the _eff-bomb._  He’s used to it enough by now. He’s even looked a little amused by it in the past. “I largely agree with you. People are quick to blame their own flaws on otherworldly influences when really they are just human and failing the tests set by God to challenge us. Regretfully the church has been complicit for generations, selling stories of Satan and his demons to drive fear in the masses. We used them to explain away anything we couldn’t explain, or didn’t like, and facilitated people rejecting the responsibility they have to face the evil in their own hearts.”

Craig nods. “I’m the first to recognise how much damage the church has done over the years. But what has this got to do with demons?”

“A lot,” Father Maxi says, grave. “Because for all we acknowledge that humans are capable of their own evil… true evil _does_ exist.”

Craig’s eyebrows lift at that. “What?”

“Craig… demons are real.”

For a moment, the room is filled with silence. Craig genuinely doesn’t know how to respond. Father Maxi is a man that he values; one of the few that he respects. It’s the only reason why Craig doesn’t scoff.

“I can see that you’re not convinced,” Father Maxi says without a hint of disappointment. “I understand, but I need you to spare me some patience. Keep that open mind we talked about.”

Craig nods stiffly. “Alright. I’m listening.”

“Thank you, Craig. Believe me, I _am_ grateful. I know none of this is easy for you to listen to, but in some ways that is _why_ I need it to be you. I need someone who is strong of mind.”

Craig hums in response. “Thank you for the accolade, but I’m not promising that I won’t take everything without an extremely large pinch of salt, even if I _do_ like you.”

“Now who’s getting the high accolades?” Father Maxi chuckles, breaking the heavy mood for a moment. He sobers quickly though. “You remember how I was called away to Rome?”

Craig nods. “I wasn’t even a deacon then.”

“Yes, you were still studying,” Father Maxi agrees. “And that is precisely why I was called to Rome: to study.”

He pauses.

“A great friend of mine reached out for aid. I loved him dearly, so on that alone I packed my bags, organised a transfer and headed to the Vatican. Once there, he acted almost... coy with me, hinting at something of grave importance. We danced around the issue for some weeks until finally I lost my patience and demanded to know why he had uprooted me from my parish.” Father Maxi breaks off to chuckle. “The old bastard laughed and told me that he’d been waiting to see some of my old fire. After that, finally, he revealed to me details about an order of priests who specialise in the study of demonology. He informed me that for the geographical spread of the US, specialists over here were desperately lacking. He didn’t ask me to join, just to consider it. He also made it clear that this path was a dangerous one, but he felt that my heart was, I quote, ‘ _too good to waste on dreary sermons and baby bathing’._ ”

“I like the sound of him,” Craig says with a small smirk. “Demons aside.”

“You’d like him and he’d like you,” Father Maxi nods. “Anyway I digress. Like you I was extremely sceptical. Angry, even. I’d been called away from my parish, my home, all to talk about _demons_ in full, melodramatic form. I almost walked away.”

“But you didn’t?” Craig supplies.

“No… I trusted him. Trust him still. So I stayed. I humoured him by attending studies and reading the texts. It was a nice vacation in between the scriptures on demonic orders. After a while, I began to enjoy myself.”

“Until?” Craig prompts, feeling his patience begin to wane again.

“Until I saw one with my own eyes,” Father Maxi says, entirely serious.  

Craig stares at him, one eye winced in disbelief. “You _saw_ one? You saw a _demon_?”

“With my own two eyes, Craig. I swear in the name of God.”

Craig’s incredulous stare doesn’t fade. He knows - _knows_ \- the old man isn’t the sort to fuck about for a joke. He knows that he’s one of the few priests he’s ever met who is totally sincere and totally measured. For that reason alone, he’ll continue to listen. He’ll continue trying to keep an open mind. He’s sure that whatever Father Maxi saw can be explained by science, but since the man clearly believes in what he saw, Craig will bite his tongue.

“I wasn’t expecting you to just believe me,” Father Maxi says good naturedly. “I wouldn’t either if I hadn’t witnessed it myself.”

“Okay,” Craig says. “So what did you witness to make such a believer out of you.”

Father Maxi sucks in a breath, visibly steadying himself. “There was a call, and my friend asked me to join him and a colleague. We traveled to Caserta, just north of Naples. It’s a beautiful place, quieter than Rome. Old too. Like something out of a movie.

“My friend and colleague were tense, and there I was enjoying the local food and scenery. I couldn’t understand it. They were quiet and serious where the day was warm and sunny and the surroundings beautiful. I couldn’t imagine evil residing there, lest of all demons. So I left them to do their research whilst I enjoyed the architecture until they rejoined me.

“Eventually, we headed to a quiet, little suburb. It was picturesque with old, white houses and nothing like the creepy, dark alleys and dilapidated buildings that are often associated with the likes of demons. Like I said, the place was charming and idyllic. It looked like the movie set for a romance picture, not a horror.

“Even so. Even despite all this prettiness, as I approached that house… I finally felt it.” Maxi trails off, a visible shiver running through him. As if someone just stepped on his grave.

“It?” Craig asks, the hard edge of cynicism in his voice softened just slightly. It’s a good story, if nothing else.

“Sorry, Craig. I’m not trying to be melodramatic, but you couldn’t make me another coffee could you?”

Craig takes a moment to observe him. He notes with faint alarm that Father Maxi has turned slightly grey. For the first time since he walked into Craig’s church, Craig notices how much older he looks. Fairytale or not, at the very least, right now Father Maxi wears the look of a man who’s just come back from the war.

Without further word, Craig lifts smoothly to his feet. He leans down to collect both mugs and walks over to the counter in his kitchenette, placing them down with a soft _thunk._  He welcomes the mindless act of making a fresh pot of coffee, hands moving on autopilot and freeing up his mind. It allows him to try to process this bizarre conversation.

There’s an odd sense of dread welling up inside himself by the time he finishes up. He doesn’t like it. It’s inexplicable and it tastes foul on his tongue. If he takes a little longer than necessary to make the journey back to the sofa, Father Maxi doesn’t comment. He lifts his eyes and with a gracious smile takes the mug Craig offers.

For a moment they sit silently, blowing steam away from their drinks. Craig begins to suspect Father Maxi has lost the thread of what he was saying, but then he takes a noisy sip from his mug, hums softly and closes his eyes.

“I never really understood the term _soldier of God_ until I walked into that house. Before that, really. Just walking up to the house. It was a beautiful, warm day but with every step I took I could just feel this disgusting, cloying sensation filling my heart and lungs and mind. All I could feel was just… utter disgust. Revulsion. That’s what evil feels like, Craig. It’s revolting. To anyone with goodness in their hearts it feels filthy.

“I didn’t even realise it, but I was starting to believe even before I set foot inside that house. And you know me, Craig. I like to think I’m relatively rational.” Craig nods his assent. “But I didn’t feel rational walking into that house. I felt like a soldier of God entering a spiritual battlefield. And that is exactly what I experienced.”

“No offence intended, but that’s some archaic language choices there,” Craig says, a futile attempt to break the heavy mood, but it seems to work, judging by the way Father Maxi smiles weakly in response.

“I know exactly what I sound like, believe me. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d think I had a screw loose.”

“Look, I’m convinced that you’re sound of mind, but you still haven’t told me what _it_ is,” Craig points out, unable to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

Father Maxi sighs and sends him a look so haunted it takes Craig aback. “I saw a seven year old girl rotting in front of my eyes.”

Craig’s eyes widen. “She was dead?”

“No,” Father Maxi replies solemnly. “She was very much alive, physically. Her body was beginning to putrefy because she was so young. She didn’t have enough physical resistance to combat the taint in her soul for long. But yes, she was alive.”

“What the fuck was wrong with her?” Craig asks, gaping.

“She was possessed by a demon,” Father Maxi says without preamble.

Craig freezes in his seat. “Bullshit,” he says.

“I wish that it was,” Father Maxi replies.

“No,” Craig insists, sounding almost incensed. “No. It’s bullshit. Possession is nothing more than people trying to explain fits and mental illnesses in the dark ages,” he snaps. “And a nice way for the church to bleed money out of those poor fuckers.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, Craig. It is absolutely the case that for centuries we explained away illness as demons. I’m not denying it, but what I saw was _possession_.”

“Oh what, she was talking in tongues and puking up pea soup?” Craig snaps, grimacing.

“No pea soup, but she was speaking in tongues,” Father Maxi nods.

“Latin?” Craig asks sarcastically. “Not a huge jump from Italian.”

“Latin. Aramaic. Some English. All in the voice of an adult man,” Father Maxi says. Craig narrows his eyes. He trusts this man with his life, but all of this just reeks. “Craig, my first thought was that this poor child needed to be taken from her mother and taken straight to the ER.”

“So why didn’t you?” Craig demands, his grip turning white on the handle of his mug.

“Because I _felt it,_ Craig. I felt something that blew all logic out of the water and -forgive the language - scared the shit out of me,” Father Maxi insists.

Craig is taken aback by the language. He’s never even heard Father Maxi utter so much as a ‘ _damn’_. “Is this that… feeling you had?”

Father Maxi nods. “Yes. It was almost viscous like… soup. But poisonous. Festering. It was like an assault on my very soul.” He stops to take a breath. It’s shaky. As if he’s afraid just thinking about it. “You know how I said that I knew what feeling like a soldier of God was in that moment? It’s because this… pestilence was alive somehow. It knew that I walked with God and it hated me for it.”

“What happened?” Craig asks. He’s surprised that his voice doesn’t come out as level as he’d expected it would. He doesn’t believe this nonsense about demons. Yet something deep inside him feels so cold suddenly.

“My friend and his colleague-” Father Maxi pauses. Chugs his coffee like it’s whisky. “They exorcised it out of her.”

“ _Exorcised_?” Craig says. His eyes are wide with disbelief. His lip curls into a slight sneer. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Craig, I don’t _eff_ with people. Look at me,” Father Maxi says in a voice so stern Craig can’t help but respond. “Look at me and seek the truth. Do you think I’m lying?”

Craig swallows, feeling suddenly put on the spot. He searches Father Maxi’s eyes for a long moment. He finds no wildness, no signs of sleep deprivation or fever. Instead he finds only a steady gaze bright with keen intelligence. “No,” he says. He’s certain of that at least. “I think you think what you saw was real.”

“Don’t use that pseudo psychology on me, Craig. I’m not one of your congregation. I don’t _think_ I saw a little girl rotting alive and hissing in Aramaic at me in the voice of something unholy. I _did_. I saw evil, Craig. I’ve met paedophiles, animal abusers and killers. I have looked into their eyes and seen what human depravity is capable of. But this? This was _evil_. Pure, inhuman evil.” Father Maxi’s voice is hurried and strained. When Craig glances down he notices Father Maxi is gripping the mug so hard, Craig worries he’ll crack it.

“Okay,” Craig says softly. He wants to reach out and ease that grip. “Okay, I believe you saw _something._  Something bad. I’m not going to lie and say that I necessarily believe that it was a demon, but I believe that you saw a little girl suffering.”

Father Maxi nods. “Oh, she was suffering.” The haunted look is back in his eyes. “I’ve never experienced such horror like that before. I was standing there, hand to my mouth to stop myself from gagging from the smell and feeling both. My hand was clutching my phone to call the authorities. But my friend? He just touched my shoulder and shook his head and then, calmly as anything I’ve ever seen, he and his colleague searched the bedroom from top to toe and questioned the mother. You’d be forgiven for thinking that they were police officers; they were so thorough, detached almost.

“It was then my friend turned to me and told me he is an exorcist. One of few legitimate exorcists left in the faith. He told me that so many of the cases they investigate are as you said - mentally ill people reading too much into fits and disorders, parents looking for a reason why their child has gone off the rails instead of looking closer to home, sick people using abuse to get attention. But then sometimes, once in a blue moon, it’s real. It’s real and he is the only thing standing between damnation and torment for an innocent soul.”

Craig doesn’t know how to respond. He wants to scoff, to chastise Father Maxi for being so gullible. But something holds him back. He doesn’t know if it’s the steel in Father Maxi’s voice, or the sureness in his eyes. “Okay, fine. Exorcism it is.”

“It wasn’t like the movies,” Father Maxi continues. “It was worse. This thing _wore_ her skin like clothing, but it was clear that it wasn’t human. It acted like something that had a vague idea of how humans work, just like a human might try to mimic an animal. Her movements were all wrong. I couldn’t even tell you in what way, but it was just wrong. Revolting, even. It was almost like there was a delay in everything she tried to do. As if the thing inside her had to think about every action, rather than it coming naturally and free from thought.”

“I’ve seen severely unwell people act like that,” Craig argues. “It’s not so uncommon with those suffering from psychotic breaks.”

“You haven’t,” Father Maxi replies, thoroughly sure. “You have never seen anyone act like that before. Like I said to you. I’ve met many lost souls during my career: drug addicts, psychopaths, but I have never seen something unholy wear a child like some sort of skin suit. Not until then.”

“Okay, okay. You’re lucky I know you though, else I’d be reporting your ass,” Craig mutters.

Father Maxi gives him a small smile. “Thank you, Craig. Your trust is extraordinarily valuable to me. It’s why I came to you and no one else.”

“Alright,” Craig says, arms still folded tight to his chest. His face is still set in a skeptical frown, but he holds back from saying more, committing to at least hearing the old man out.

“It was only when they were thoroughly convinced that they started. Afterwards my friend told me that performing an exorcism on someone who is just mentally unwell, or being abused by mentally unwell parents just causes more harm than good. It’s a traumatic process you see. The innocent must be tied down to prevent them from hurting themselves or others as the demon gets more desperate.”

Craig’s grip on his arms tightens at that, the image of a suffering child being tied down leaving a bad taste on his tongue. Still, he remains firm to his commitment and says nothing.

“I was strictly there to observe,” Father Maxi continues. “I was told not to go near to her, not to speak to her or the thing inside her, and not to react to her. I was warned that it feeds off sin and that it would speak of things that a little Italian girl shouldn’t know- things that would hurt me. Provoke me.”

“And did it?” Craig asks. He frowns. “ _She_ ,” he corrects himself.

“Yes, it did,” Father Maxi nods, solemn. “It dug inside all of us and paraded our sins around with sick delight. It spoke of the things we have hidden inside ourselves, buried deep down and eased by God’s love. I felt thoroughly violated, but my colleagues? They were used to it. They were professionals wielding the power of God like surgeons, cutting out the corruption like a cancer.

“It took hours, Craig. Hateful, trying hours, but they did it. I saw things I’ll never forget that day, but what changed me was my friend and his colleague. I have always, always treasured bringing the words and love of God to people, Craig. I have always loved being a safe place for lost, and troubled souls to come to, seeking guidance. But in those two I saw the power of God for the first time. I saw the unseen drive evil out. I _felt_ His presence more keenly than I ever had before, filling the room once the foulness had gone.”

Craig still says nothing. Doesn’t dare speak aloud that he hasn’t felt His presence himself for a long time. Isn’t sure if he ever really has, or whether he’s just been fooling himself.

Father Maxi gives him a few quiet moments to brood, sipping his coffee as he trains a soft, caring gaze on Craig.

“It changed me, as you can see,” Father Maxi says, delicately breaking the heavy silence. “And from that moment on, I redoubled my dedication to my studies and accompanied my friend on more of his missions.”

“What are you saying?” Craig says, eyes narrowing.

“I’m saying I’m a trained exorcist, Craig,” Father Maxi answers wiith so much gravity that for a moment it feels almost like the walls of the room tremble.

Craig remains silent for a long while, processing. He knows and trusts this man, probably even loves him. The thought of him losing his mind is terrifying, and yet somehow not as terrifying as this _fantasy_ being real. There’s no way it can be. The bible isn’t verbatim. It’s all metaphors and interpretations. Demons aren’t real. They _can’t_ be.

“Why have you told me this story, Father Maxi?” Craig asks finally.

“Because I need help,” Father Maxi replies, totally open. For the first time that night, Craig can see desperation there. “I need help and I can’t think of anyone who’d be better than you.”

“Me?” Craig frowns. “Why me?” He considers himself a piss poor priest. He can barely stand people and has little patience. He barely even believes half of what is in the bible. He’s just a man who feels like he really, really owes God and the institution that probably saved his life. How can he possibly help a seasoned professional (who may or may not be in the middle of a breakdown).

“Because your heart is strong, Father Tucker,” Father Maxi smiles. “It’s stronger than any other priest that I know.”

Craig snorts derisively at that. “I’m riddled with demons - actual demons. I’m not sure I’m the poster boy for purity.”

“I don’t need someone pure, Craig. I need someone with a strong heart and level head. Someone who’s walked the line and come out stronger,” Father Maxi replies so firmly, with such conviction, Craig is taken aback.

“I’m flattered by the praise, Father, but what is it you need more _for_?”

Father Maxi levels him with a serious look. “I need you to help me perform an exorcism.”

Craig’s mouth goes dry. “You can’t be serious.”

“I know you don’t believe me, Craig. I know you’re looking for the logical answer, but that’s why it has to be _you_. That’s what makes me trust you with my life.”

“But, an _exorcism_?”

“An exorcism,” Father Maxi confirms.

Craig stares him down. The old fucker must think Craig is as insane as he clearly is if he thinks he’ll agree to this bullshit.

“I’m in,” he says. “But you’re buying me dinner, and I’m expecting a good show.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m writing this as an atheist from one of the most atheist countries in the world :’D
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway! My first multi-chapter in about 9 years! I've got 23,000 words of if written, so I have a contingency in place if I slow down with writing it!
> 
> I have another multi-chapter on pause too, but this one sprung on me and had to be written.


	3. Chapter 2

His name is Tweek Tweak. Craig has to double check that it’s not a typo, but no, apparently his parents must have had a bad sense of humour.

The notes don’t tell him much of value. There’s nothing much remarkable about Tweek Tweak. Graduated high school with average marks. Spent a couple of years at community college on a catering course before dropping out and working at his parent’s coffee shop. No criminal record until he went absolutely batshit.

Police records list him as a meth head. Brains shot to pieces on shit and leaving him swinging wildly between being a whimpering, jibbering mess, and coldly psychopathic. A soul lost to society, destined to spend the rest of his days incarcerated in whatever mental health facility can be bothered to take him.

“I don’t doubt that he needs a priest, Father Maxi,” Craig mutters as he flips through the notes. “He sounds fucked up. I mean he’s the epitome of a lost soul.”

“If we don’t act quickly, his soul is precisely what will be lost to us,” Father Maxi replies, serious as ever as he flicks the indicator and swings the car off the highway.

Craig hums. He’s about to say more when he comes across a photograph. It was taken in police custody, probably the night that this kid was arrested. Just over two weeks ago, judging by the date.

He definitely looks like he’s on _something_ : eyes huge in a pale face sharp with sunken cheeks. His blond hair is filthy and matted with dried blood, dirt and some weird black shit, all of which has run into his face. The unkempt hair bleeds into an equally unkempt beard, it’s length reflecting several days, if not more, of neglect. He has what looks suspiciously like dried- on vomit on his chin and his lips are so cracked and blistered that the that devil-may-care smirk he’s wearing looks red and taught. Those reddened gashes make the curve of his lips look predatory somehow, eyes slanted in cruel amusement. His eyes though. His eyes are what make Craig stop altogether.

They’re dark. So dark they’re almost black. They sit like twin voids, devoid of both light and emotion. There’s not even a single twinkle. Craig knows that logically there must have been _some_ light source in the room. Knows because he used to enjoy photography as a kid. And yet there’s not even a hint of light reflected in those flat, dark eyes.

“Shit!” Craig yelps as a clump of burning ash falls into his lap.

“What?” Father Maxi shouts back, alarmed. He shoots a quick glance over towards Craig, torn between keeping his eyes on the road and making sure that his protogé is in one piece.

“Nothing. Just burnt myself,” Craig replies, snatching up his fallen cigarette from where it’s dangerously close to setting the file on fire. He swipes the ash off his slacks with the back of his hand, frowning at the stain that it leaves.

“Maybe it’s God’s way of telling you to stop?” Father Maxwell says with far too much amusement. Craig replies by giving him the finger and turning back to the file.

His eyes skim over the photograph again. His teeth clench reflexively around his cigarette as he does, that same, cold feeling from before running through him as he focuses on the eyes.

It’s just a bullshit trick of the light. It’s the only logical explanation. It doesn’t explain why he’s so fearful that he feels physically sick though. He takes a shaky suck of nicotine to calm himself down, releasing the smoke slowly out of where he’s cracked the window open.

“Say that you’re right about demons and their ability to attack people for their sins, tell me again why you think it’s smart to bring me along,” Craig says dryly as he mashes his cigarette out against the side of his screw-top water bottle and drops it in. It lands next to its soggy, little companions, forming an island of ash and filters in leftover drops of water.

“Many reasons,” Father Maxi replies conversationally. “But you’re aware of your own sins, Craig. You struggle with them, I’m sure, but you don’t deny them. That makes you strong.”

Craig snorts. He doesn’t feel strong. He feels like he’s constantly engaged in guerilla warfare with himself. “You just want me because I’m in Colorado,” he says instead.

“Yes, that was part of it too,” Father Maxi agrees. “Time is of the essence here. He’s been in police custody for two weeks already and was clearly showing signs of possession before that. If I’d put a request in to Rome I’d be wasting weeks that we might not have.” Craig nods, not really understanding.

Father Maxi looks over at him again. “Consider this: I’ve been active in the church in Colorado for more than thirty years. I know nearly every priest in every parish. But I chose _you_.”

Craig snorts again at that, sending him a small smirk. “Only I’m gullible enough to come with you, that’s why.”

“No, poor Father McFall fell for some children pranking his Virgin Mary statue crying milk. You’re definitely not the most gullible,” Father Maxi laughs.

Craig chuckles in a husky huff of air. “Wow, what a dork.”

“Now, now, Father Tucker. That’s no way to speak about a brother of the faith,” Father Maxi tsks. “But yes- what a dork indeed.”

Craig does laugh at that, reminded again of why he likes this man so much. It makes him feel better, the cold, sick feeling from before easing from Father Maxi’s presence.

They lapse into silence once their laughter fades, both lost in thought. Craig glances at his lap and closes the file.

“Remind me of how you were called. You said a cop phoned you?” Craig says.

Father Maxi nods. “Yes. He’s a good sort. Kind. He says he knew Mr. Tweak back in elementary school and said that while he was always a little bit-” he pauses, trying to find the right word, “ _unusual_ , he was a kind boy with a good heart. Not the sort to go around terrifying people, eating small animals alive and taking chunks out of innocent passers-by.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t exactly take some cop’s elementary school memories as some sort of evidence-based decision. A lot of years have passed since elementary school. That’s plenty of time to fuck someone up,” Craig points out.

“Very true, but you’ve seen the file: no prior convictions, no warning signs. He’s been on medication for anxiety and depression for years but people with anxiety don’t generally walk around half-dressed, spouting obscenities, and biting people,” Father Maxi responds. He leans in his seat, reaching over to tap the file. “Plus up until very recently he was still collecting his medication on schedule. He was managing just fine, Craig.”

“He dropped out of college,” Craig says.

“So did you,” Father Maxi replies.

“Yeah, I did. And I was fucked up too, so forgive me for speaking from a place of more experience,” Craig snaps, waspish.

“Yes, and look at you now,” Father Maxi says, voice softened with patience. “Dropping out of college does not mean your life is over. Go back to the report, Craig. Mr. Tweak wasn’t the greatest of achievers, but until he started changing he was well-liked. He had friends. He managed.”

“Yeah, I read the report, Father,” Craig says, fingers scrabbling for his cigarette packet, irritation making him fumble. “He grew quiet and withdrawn, started lashing out and acting unlike himself. Acted more and more like an animal. Sounds like the same old story as all the other poor fuckers lost to drugs and alcohol, and all the shitty temptations that life throws at them.”

“So then why did they find no traces in his system? No meth, no heroin, no cocaine? Not even marijuana.”

“No one calls it marijuana these days,” Craig mutters, focussing his attention on fishing out a fresh cigarette with fingers that feel oddly clumsy.

“No traces, Craig. None. Not even alcohol. In fact it stated that he was so dehydrated that it was staggering that he was conscious,” Father Maxi finishes, ignoring the interjection.

“Doesn’t matter if his brain was shot to shit by it beforehand,” Craig says, finally managing to pull a cigarette out. He taps it twice on the packet. “This cop sounds as gullible as Father McFall if he thinks this guy is possessed, just because he was nice when he was seven and doesn’t have any drugs in his system.”

“Perhaps,” Father Maxi says. “But what _isn’t_ in the report is the phone call he had with me.”

Craig shrugs, lifting the cigarette to his lips and lighting up. “Go on,” he says around it.

“I was dubious, Craig. I told you that we specialists respond with cynicism ourselves. You remember my story about my friend? How he and his partner swept the room and interrogated the mother first? You never assume it’s possession. Never. So I listened and I held my tongue as he listed off anything that could be seen in a movie: rotting smell, cracked skin, vomit, weird voice-”

Craig rolls his eyes. “How Hollywood.”

“Yes, but you know the term _no smoke without fire_ don’t you?”

Craig pauses to consider that. “Fine, carry on.”

“I humoured him, listened like a man of the cloth should. And then he let me listen to him myself. You know what the first thing I heard was?” Craig stares at him, offering no answer. “I heard a voice say ‘ _hello, Father Maxi. How was Rome_?’”

“What? In Latin?” Craig says.

“No, in Italian. But that is a key tell, Craig. Knowing things they shouldn’t know. How did he know who was on the phone? How did a colleague drop out with no Italian ancestry know a language not widely studied in the US? How did he know I’d been to Rome?”

Craig stares at him. “None of those things are inexplicable,” Craig says softly. He’s momentarily disgusted in himself for the lack of conviction in his voice.

“One of those things, maybe. Perhaps even if this was all staged as some elaborate prank, but this was a police officer and a young man under arrest. No one in their right mind is going to waste police time, and the time of two priests for some enormous joke,” Father Maxi says.

“I’m not saying that,” Craig says, frowning. “But this cop could have said your name on the call. He could have let slip that you were in Rome.”

“He could have, but he didn’t. And he wouldn’t be sitting there chatting to some _effed-up_ -as you put it- man about some priest’s trip overseas, would he?” Father Maxi replies, eyebrow lifting in challenge.

“Alright, fine. I admit that the situation is weird, but it’s still not impossible,” Craig relents.

“And I completely agree with you, Craig. The first thing I’ll do when I get there will be to establish the truth, and _that_ we handle like scientists”

Craig scans his eyes over him, thoughtful. “Seek to prove the theory wrong.”

Father Maxi nods. “And if you can’t prove it’s wrong, it must be right.”

Craig hums in response, taking a drag on his cigarette. After another bout of silence, Craig speaks up again. “So what is a cop doing calling a priest? I thought their usual style was to throw poor bastards like this guy into a nut house and wipe their hands of them.”

“Psychiatric hospital,” Father Maxi corrects, stern. “I like your honest style, Craig but I hope you don’t talk to your congregation like that.”

“Fine. Sorry,” Craig sighs, although he does at least mean it. “Institutionalised. I’m on their side. They need more help than the cops want to give them. It’s just unusual that a cop does want to help, and that he chose to call a priest of all people.”

“The chief has known me some years,” Father Maxi explains. “He’s a good man with a sensitive heart: one of the few who go into police work because they genuinely want to help people. He wants to help this young man, Craig. But he is _terrified_. And he -like us- has seen the darker side of humanity.”

“So he called a priest?”

Father Maxi nods. “He called a priest. I want to reiterate that an exorcism is a last resort, Craig. I’m not going in there expecting to find a demon. I’m going in there expecting to find a very ill young man. But I’m ready do something if he isn’t.”

“What if he is? We step in and give him unsolicited spiritual advice instead?” Craig says, annoyed again.

“I know some homeless shelters that can take in someone like him, if he isn’t possessed,” Father Maxi replies in a soft voice.

“He’s homeless?” He flips the file open again -avoids the photograph- and scans the text. “Shit, his parents refused to post bail?”

“Apparently they’ve washed their hands of him, citing that they are too afraid,” Father Maxi adds.

“Fuckers,” Craig spits.

“Craig, it’s not our place to judge. Having a demon in the house -literal or metaphorical- takes an enormous toll on those getting physically or verbally assaulted. I can well imagine that they were afraid of him.”

Craig says nothing. He’s lost in thought, thinking of his own parents. He thinks of his mother with her fierce scowl, and her lioness spirit. He thinks of his father with his clumsy tongue and heavy hands and round stomach. They were -had been- good people. Not perfect by any stretch, but they had loved their children dearly and never would have turned their backs on Craig or his sister Trish. He’s certain of it. He’s had his fair share of demons over the years and he knows that if things were different, if the world was _fairer_ , his parents would’ve been there to get him through it.

Instead he’d had the church. He’d had Father Maxi. It’s the only reason why he’s spent two hours on the road with him on a fool’s errand.

The silence lasts until Father Maxi pulls off the road and into a parking space outside a police station. The station is surprisingly large for town as small as this one, but Craig doesn’t question it. He’s sure there’s some historical reason behind it, but he really doesn’t care about some hick town in southern Colorado. The sooner they’re out of here the better.

Before Craig has a chance to jerk the door open, Father Maxi stills him with a hand on his arm. Craig shoots him a questioning look, eyebrows lifting when he takes in how different Father Maxi suddenly looks. He’s ashen with dread but there’s an ice cold resolve to him that catches Craig off guard.

“Father Maxi?”

“Craig, I need you to be sure about this. I know you don’t believe me and that’s fine, but when we’re in there I’m going to need you to follow what I say to the letter. If you don’t, you’ll be at serious risk.” Father Maxi says all this with such a serious, commanding sense of presence that ludicrously, Craig finds himself flinching back slightly.

“Alright already,” he says, sounding more shaken than he’d like. “I’ll behave.”

“It’s not about behaving, Craig. I welcome your cynicism and I pray that you’re right about this. But if you’re not, I need you to follow,” Father Maxi says.

Craig nods in response, suddenly unsure whether he knows the man in the car as well as he thinks he does.

They exit the car together, Craig falling in behind Father Maxi, already unconsciously following his lead. They walk up three short steps and through the doors of the main entrance, stepping into the waiting area. There’s a quiet buzz in the room as Father Maxi approaches the reception desk. Craig isn’t surprised by it. He doubts the arrival of two Catholic priests in a police station waiting room is a common occurrence, especially in a small town like this.

“I’m here to see Captain Donovan,” Father Maxi says. “He’s expecting me.”

The police officer behind the desk eyes Father Maxi and Craig suspiciously, her sharp gaze flitting between them. “Ain’t it a little early for Halloween?” She asks, her voice as acidic as her stare.

“Please tell him it’s Father Maxi,” Father Maxi says patiently. “He’ll know why I’m here. As I said, he’s expecting me.”

Her gaze lingers on them for a moment longer before she sighs. “Go and sit down. I’ll call the Cap’.”

Father Maxi does as bid, lowering his ass into a curved, plastic seat. Craig chooses to stand, fingers itching for a cigarette and mindlessly tapping against his thigh. He tries not to dwell on what a waste of his day this is, scanning the cork noticeboard with disinterest instead. He glances over various coloured pamphlets, but nothing catches his attention. After working in the suburbs of the city, quiet, little backwater towns like this one do very little to stir his interest.

He snaps back to attention when Father Maxi lifts smoothly to his feet. Craig turns in time to see a broad man appear from behind the counter, stepping forward with his hand outstretched and clasping Father Maxi’s as soon as they’re in touching distance.

“Father!” The man says around a broad smile. “It’s been too long.”

Father Maxi nods. “It has indeed, Captain Donovan,” he says warmly. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

Captain Donovan’s smile grows inexplicably wider at that, making him look deceptively boyish. “Thanks, Father.” He breaks off to glance over at Craig. “This is the colleague you mentioned?”

“Yes, this is Father Tucker,” Father Maxi says.

Captain Donovan goes to say more, catching himself when he thinks better of it. “Come on through to my office. It’d be good to catch up. Officer Froddy could you grab us some coffee?”

Someone -Craig isn’t sure and doesn’t care who- shoots back a ‘sure’. Then he follows as Captain Donovan begins leading the way through a short series of narrow, corridors until they reach a door adorned with a name half-peeled off.

Captain Donovan pauses, blushing lightly as he grips the knob. “We haven’t got around to putting my name on it yet,” he says, as if admitting to some grave professional incompetence. He doesn’t let them dwell on it, jerking the handle and pushing the door open.

Craig steps inside, glancing around as he does so. Despite the Captain’s demeanour, his office looks neat and orderly. His desk is basic and loaded with paperwork arranged in tidy piles either side of a dulled name plaque inscribed with ‘ _Cpt. C Donovan_ ’. The walls are littered with information and photographs, undoubtedly about unsolved crimes, neon yellow post-it notes adding notes as if speaking the Captain’s thoughts aloud. To one side of the desk is a battered leather chair, worn and fraying. It sits opposite two brown plastic chairs that look as unremarkable as any other cheap chair until Craig notices the subtle metal protrusion. Probably there to keep a suspect cuffed in place, he thinks.

After a nod of invitation, Craig takes a seat in one of those chairs, selecting the closest to the small window that sits on the opposite side of the door. It’s heavily blinded and the glass looks thick and mottled. Together they probably add an extra layer of security to the information on the walls. The heavy filtering of natural light makes the room look smaller, even with its yellow-checkered linoleum flooring and it’s peeling, dirty white walls. It’s not unpleasant to be in but it has a slightly stale, clinical air. It’s so far removed from the warm walnut of the church that for a moment, Craig feels extremely naive to the world.

Captain Donovan breaks the quiet by closing the door with a click. He sinks into his chair, ignoring its woeful moans judging by his lack of concern. As he sits, Craig takes a moment to observe him. The first thing he notices is that Captain Donovan is young, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. He’s relatively plain-looking, but his round face and honest expression give him a boyish charm that really doesn’t suit his role as a police chief. He’s not particularly tall, further detracting from his ability to look imposing, but he’s broad and he looks strong. He’s probably carrying a little extra weight on him too, but Craig doesn’t doubt that he could easily overpower the average criminal if he needs to.

“Thanks for coming today, Father Maxi, Father Tucker,” the Captain nods. “I’ll be honest, I was surprised you believed me.”

“I’ve known you for years, Captain,” Father Maxi replies. “I know you’d only call on a work matter if you needed me.”

“Father Maxi,” The Captain interrupts. “When we’re not in front of my officers, could you just call me Clyde? It feels too weird to hear you call me Captain.”

Father Maxi nods whilst Craig goggles at the Captain wondering what kind of backwards town this really is.

“Frankly I’m glad you’re here,” Captain Donovan -Clyde- says with a sudden weariness. “It's good to meet you too, Father Tucker. I’ve been counting down the minutes. He’s been getting worse and frankly it's scaring the shit out of me.”

Craig barely holds back from snorting, unable to fully believe that a professional -a police chief- seems as bought into this bullshit as Father Maxi is.

“Can you tell me about the signs he’s been exhibiting?” Father Maxi says, folding his hands over his knee.

Clyde nods. “I’m no expert or anything, like I told you, but it’s like there’s two people in there. Most of the time he’s catatonic, huddled against the wall and staring at nothing. Sometimes he speaks but it’s… just a mash of words, quiet and low, and hard to understand. Sadly… I think that’s _him_. The guy I know, I mean. That’s when it’s safe; our district nurse helps keep him fed through an IV drip and we can go in and change him.”

“Change him?” Craig interrupts, eyebrow arching.

“Yeah. He’s barely responsive. If we leave him to it, he… ah… soils himself. Poor bastard,” Clyde adds in a soft, sad voice.

Craig slams his hand down on the table, causing both Clyde and Father Maxi to startle in their seats. “He’s so far gone he’s shitting himself? That’s fucking negligence! He needs a hospital not a police station!”

Clyde flinches back under the force of Craig’s temper. As a police officer, he’s likely come up against aggressive, violent individuals from the underbelly of life. But, Craig wagers, he’s never felt the wrath of a pissed off priest before.

“Forgive my colleague, Clyde,” Father Maxi interjects. “He’s a passionate man.”

Clyde looks between the two of them, openly confused. “You seem not to believe that this is demonic, Father.”

“He sounds like a smackhead in desperate need of help!” Craig argues.

“Don’t you think that was my first thought?” Clyde snaps. “That guy was my friend once. We ran every damn test on him and there is no trace of any shit in his system! And you know what, dude? I’m a fucking _police officer!_ I’ve been working on the meth problem in my town for years. I know what addiction looks like and it doesn’t feel _evil_! It doesn’t shake the bars and it doesn’t make guys talk in crazy languages!” He breaks off. For a moment, Craig and Clyde stare at one another, Clyde red-faced and Craig silent. After several uncomfortable seconds trickle by, Clyde sits back in his seat and visibly forces himself to relax. “Father, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was unprofessional.”

Craig’s jaw flexes before he too relaxes. “Forget about it. I accused you of negligence.”

“If you don’t think it’s demonic, you’ll have a case for thinking I’m negligent. I’m not an idiot, despite how it may look. I could lose my job over not sending him to some psych unit but I just… I knew him once and I know this town. This isn’t drugs and it isn’t some mental breakdown. It’s something else. If you and Father Maxi can’t help then I’ll suck it up and send him away but I just… I gotta try.”

Craig studies him for a long moment and, for better or worse, finds absolute sincerity there. “Okay,” He relents. “I promised my colleague that I’d keep an open mind. But I reserve the right to report what I see if I think his rights have been infringed.”

“That’s fair,” Clyde nods.

Father Maxi clears his throat, reminding Craig and Clyde that he’s still in the room. They share one last look and then send something more apologetic Father Maxi’s way.

“You said the bars shook?” Father Maxi asks when their attention returns to him  

Clyde nods. “Scared the shit out of my lieutenant. Me too, if I’m honest. You know he’s… _different_ as soon as you look at him. He’s sitting up, alert. He wears this… horrible expression. It’s like he wants to eat you alive. When he talks, it’s like his voice is made of oil like it’s… thick and slimy and nothing like Tweek’s voice-”

Clyde is interrupted by a knock at the door. A look of raw relief touches his face and he breaks off to invite whoever it is inside.

Another officer enters, bearing a tray with three cups and a pot of coffee. “Sorry it took so long, sir,” the guy says. He sets it down on the table and exits without another word, although he shoots Craig and Father Maxi an odd look as he leaves.

“Help yourselves,” Clyde says with a vague gesture. Craig does so, reaching out to seize a cup and pouring himself a black coffee, lifting it to his lips to take a greedy, scalding gulp. Clyde seems mildly disturbed by the act, but refrains from commenting.

Quiet falls over the room. It plays on Craig’s patience and he’s about to prompt a continuation of the story when Clyde preempts him, speaking up once again.

“It’s not Tweek. I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t Tweek. Tweek was a kind guy- a little odd, a little spazzy, but he was nice. He gave a shit, you know? He’s had a tough time, especially with his asshole parents, but his life was on course. He isn’t... _that_ ,” Clyde insists.

“His parents are assholes?” Craig asks.

“Yeah. We’ve been trying to pin dealing on them for years, but they always slip through our fingers. And yeah, of course I know how it sounds- that his parents are meth addicts, but that made him hate that shit.”

Father Maxi hums in thought. “He sounds like he was quite vulnerable. It’d make him an easy target if there’s something supernatural at play.”

Craig chooses not to comment, gripping his cup and tossing more burning coffee down his throat. It goes down like razor blades.

“If it is something supernatural, it’s getting stronger,” Clyde says, grave. “The last time we went down there the Goddamned bars shook -excuse my language, Father. I mean I thought all that shit was in the movies but I wasn’t ready for it. It felt like whatever it was was filling the cell. There was pressure everywhere, pushing against me, pushing against the walls. Something was in there and it wanted to get out. I’m not ashamed to say that it really scared me. If I hadn’t had my training, I would have run.”

Father Maxi nods, solemn. “Thank you, Clyde. Would you mind getting everything ready for us to make a visit? I need to speak to my colleague alone.”

Clyde nods, some boyish eagerness slipping out from behind the professional image. “Of course, Father. _Fathers_ ,” he corrects himself. He stands and, without even warning Craig and Father Maxi that there may be sensitive material in the room, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

“I know you like the guy, Father Maxi, but if I suspect that police abuse or negligence has happened, I’m reporting it,” Craig says, fixing Father Maxi with a stern glare.

“Craig, I’d be concerned if you didn’t,” Father Maxi replies without a hint of annoyance. “You’re a good priest and you care about people.”

“But?”

“But I think this case sounds legitimate. Clyde isn’t some religious fundamentalist in an isolated town, Craig. He is a professional. He’s so young because he’s earnt it. You might not believe me, but he’s no fool.”

“Alright,” Craig sighs, tapping his fingers against the desk. He wants a cigarette. He wants a cigarette and he wants to go home and sleep this all away as a bizarre dream. “Fine. You said to keep an open mind. I’m keeping an open mind. What do you need from me?”

Father Maxi nods and fixes him with a grateful smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear Tweek is in this story. 
> 
> I mean I’m 30,000 words in and I’ve seen him, honest.


	4. Chapter 3

Craig learns that there’s only two things he really needs to do, but it’s apparently very important that he doesn’t fuck them up.

The first is simple: respond to Father Maxi as he reads from the _Rituale Romanum_. As Father Maxi explained it, exorcism is a battle between God’s soldiers and the forces of the demons. A priest’s faith is his weapon, not prayers and passages. A priest may read from any scripture he chooses, may recite any prayer that resonates the strongest with him. All the prayers and scriptures do is to focus his faith. Focus his power and weaken the demon under the force of it. The key thing, Father Maxi had said, is that the exorcism must be completed. Otherwise a priest may approach the ritual in his own way, so long as he was confident it expressed his faith best.

The second key thing is that Craig must try not to respond to it. It may know things that it shouldn’t. It may sneer and bait and make false promises, but Craig must withhold from responding. He must stay focussed on his faith. Above all else, he must not let it make him doubt because that lets It in and once It’s been let in, its over.

He’s still biting his tongue as Captain Donovan leads them down into the cells. They move past thieves and drunks as they walk, and Craig tries not to let the fact that they are uncharacteristically quiet bother him. The last thing he wants is to start buying into all this bullshit.

They reach the end of the corridor. Captain Donovan- Clyde, Craig reminds himself-  pauses and selects a new key, hesitating when he presses it to the lock.

“We keep him in solitary,” he explains in a soft voice. “He was scaring the other inmates. My officers too, if I’m honest,” he adds.

Father Maxi nods. “Lock the doors behind us.”

Clyde takes a moment to respond. “Alright, but I’m going in there with you,” he says. “I know I’m just a cop, but I couldn’t live with myself if either of you got hurt.”

Father Maxi looks reluctant for a moment before he sighs. “Very well, but you must stay at the back of the room and you may not speak. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Clyde agrees. With that, he turns the key and the lock slides open with a dramatic clanging sound.

Mutely, they all enter the cell and for a moment, Craig forgets how to breathe.

It’s not dark like his fairytale fantasies were expecting. It’s brightly lit with a sickly, fluorescent glow from the ceiling light. The stink, however, is worse than he imagined. He’d been expecting piss and shit and sweat. What hits him instead is something dark and dirty and faintly putrid like decaying leaves, or a long-dead animal.

He finds the figure in the corner easily. There’s nothing else in the room but him, sitting curled up in a mockery of a babe in the womb, head resting on his knees. For a second, Craig wants to reach out to him, to throw his arms around him and assure him that he’s safe, but the sentiment dies as soon as the man’s eyes move. His irises -so black Craig cannot even make out his pupils- roll to take in the new arrivals, and when Craig meets that gaze, he goes so cold, he breaks out into a sweat. It’s as sharp and as venomous as a snake’s fangs, and when the man smiles, Craig has a crazy moment where he thinks that’s what he’ll see: two long, pointed fangs dripping venom.

“Have you bought me some company, Captain?” The man -Tweek Tweak- says in a voice that oozes from his throat. “Some fine men of the cloth to ease my strife?”

“C’mon, Tweek,” Clyde begs. “I know you’re in there. These men are gonna help you, okay? You just gotta let them.”

“Ah, Father Maxi in the flesh. Come stai, padre?” Tweek says conversationally. It does nothing to warm Craig back up again.

“You speak Italian? Surprising for a Colorado boy,” Father Maxi says as he kneels to place his bag down on the linoleum.

“Oh please, Father. You know better than to accuse me of being the stupid human spaz I’m wearing,” Tweek laughs. His attention snaps, predatory when he hears a sharp intake of breath from Clyde. “Does that upset you, Captain? When was the last time you spoke to Tweek, hmm? Was it when you wanted to fuck his mom back in High School? Mmm… what a MILF.”

Craig glances over at Clyde. He’s red in the face, mouth hanging open- in denial or shame, Craig has no idea.

“You’re not telling me anything that Tweek Tweak couldn’t theoretically know,” Father Maxi interjects, sounding as conversational as Tweek is. “If you want me to impressed, you really should try harder.”

Tweek hums, eyes glinting with challenge. “Baiting me?” He tuts slowly. “Father, please, tell me you’re capable of more than that. I know you’re new to all this. You’re a positive _virgin_ ,” Tweek purrs the word. It makes Craig feel dirty. “Should I feel honoured to be the one you want to pop your solo cherry? Do you want me to _moan_ like a good boy? Make you feel like God’s good little soldier?”

“If you truly know who I am, you’ll know I’m hardly inexperienced,” Father Maxi responds, gathering his crucifix in his fist.

“Perhaps not _inexperienced_ , but you’ve always had someone better than you around before, haven’t you? Someone more practiced. And yet here you bring a newbie to play,” Tweek grins with lips so dry they look ready to crack apart at the action. His eyes fix on Craig, sending another chill through him. For the first time, Craig feels his resolve waver. He recalls Father Maxi’s words on evil reacting to the servants of God and with some certainty he realises that, human or demon, this being hates him with pure, unadulterated malice.

Then Tweek starts speaking again, a growling, gurgling sort of noise and it takes Craig a long, slow moment to realise that he isn’t speaking English. It’s older, sounding dark on his tongue.

It’s Semitic. Hebrew? Aramaic?

Whatever he says, Craig doesn’t follow. He can barely keep up with Latin. Father Maxi, on the other hand, is all motion, rising to his feet and lifting his rosary to his lips.

The lights overhead flicker. Craig nearly jumps out of his skin in response.

Father Maxi turns to Clyde. “Is Tweek Jewish, or Muslim or does he have _anything_ in his past to suggest he could know Aramaic?”

Clyde looks lost. “Jewish or Muslim- what?”

“Aramaic is a Semitic language. There is a small chance, if Tweek knows Hebrew or Arabic, he could have had a basis for studying Aramaic,” Father Maxi explains, patient.

“A small chance?” Craig scoffs. “More like minuscule.”

“Am I starting to make a believer out of you, Father Tucker?” Tweek says with a nasty grin.

“No,” Craig responds. “I’m suggesting you learnt Aramaic to fuck with us.”

“Oh!” Tweek grins, mouth growing impossibly wide. “Such language from a man of God. But then, you’re not a typical man of God, are you, Father? You’re not exactly the type they like to have in the club. Lucky good old Father Maxi was on hand to fight your corner wasn’t it?”

Craig freezes on the spot. Perhaps Tweek is a masterful manipulator and reader of people, but that is so close to the truth that Craig’s heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest. He’s been trying so hard to rationalise the sensation in the room. He’s been trying to tell himself that a young, washed-up druggie could have learnt Aramaic on a whim. At a push he can even make himself believe that the filthy corruption in the room is is simply something he can taste and smell in the air and that he can’t feel it seeping into him, making his soul recoil in revulsion. But all together… all together they paint a picture that he isn’t sure he wants to see.

“Father,” Father Maxi interrupts his skittering thoughts. “I need you to take up your book and collect a crucifix.”

Craig stares at him for a long moment. Father Maxi seems to have grown suddenly. In the cloying, oppressive pressure inside the room, Father Maxi stands like a stone, unyielding. For the first time in a long time, Craig can feel something else entirely. He isn’t sure if it’s God, or if it’s holy, but it’s something strong and burning and hungry to purge the foulness. It stirs something in Craig, something he’d been afraid of losing.

He feels his resolve strengthen. Regardless of whether demons and exorcism exists, he wants to help. He wants to touch that power and feel real conviction for the first time in a long time.

“You talk a lot, but you haven’t impressed me yet,” Father Maxi says in a bored voice as he fixes his stole in place.

“I haven’t impressed you?” It- no, _Tweek_ . His name is Tweek- responds. Craig is surprised to see that it- _he,_ demons don’t exist- looks almost offended. in his expression, Craig sees vanity. He sees how much Tweek enjoys the attention.

Craig doesn’t have time for much more thought. Tweek shifts from his position on the bed, unfurling in jerky movements that make Craig feel immediately uncomfortable- _'This thing wore her skin like clothing’_ \- erupting in gooseflesh at the revolting wrongness his motions carry. Tweek reaches a sitting position, his head rolling on his shoulder. He doesn’t lunge or make to stand, and his cuffed hands remain at his side, flopped carelessly on the bed. He doesn’t seem to either care or notice that he’s bound to the bed. He simply sits facing them, lips stretched in a manic grin, eyes burning with malice.

Without warning the pressure in the room grows tenfold. It hits Craig like a physical blow to the chest, sinking down into his stomach where it rolls with nausea. He doesn’t have time to feel sick. His attention is snapped instead towards the groan and _chink_ of the bars that cover the sole, tiny window, frantically vibrating. Something clatters followed shortly by a shout of surprise. Clyde, he supposes. He can’t even bring himself to turn around and check. His head feels as if it’s been put in a pressure cooker, exploding with starbursts of pain. Craig can barely lift a hand to cradle it, staggering on legs that feel like a newborn calf’s.

Amidst all the apparent chaos in the room, Father Maxi and Tweek remain still, gazes locked on each other, steady and strong. There’s so much power there, crashing and raging in a bitter unseen battle, but Craig can feel it. Every atom inside his body thrums with excitement and fear. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his cock stir. A cold sweat breaks over him and a light within his own chest burns. It’s little more than a candlelight to Father Maxi’s righteous strength, but it’s there, flickering; dancing to fight back the darkness.

Then the pressure recedes like the tide rushing out and suddenly Craig feels like he can breathe again.

“Impressed yet?” Tweek -no, something _else_ \- croons. “I rarely get to unfurl my wings. Humans are so cramped in their tiny, frail bodies and their fragile, little souls.”

“If his soul is so pitiful to you, why not leave him be?” Father Maxi replies. His voice is strong. Craig doesn’t trust his own to be anything more than a hoarse whisper.

“Father, don’t you know that slothfulness is a sin? I’m lazy and this one is easy,” Tweek -Tweek? Craig’s _really_ still thinking that?- chuckles. “He practically let me walk right in. Low self-esteem, no real support network, no one even really cares if he disappears. Let me have him Father. He’s a meaningless existence.”

“He is a child of God,” Father Maxi says in a voice as cold and hard as steel. “His soul is worth as much as anyone’s and I will not let you take him.” He turns to Craig and nods once. “I’m going to begin.”

Craig wants so badly to question him. He wants to demand they get this man to a hospital, get him help. But something inside him knows with absolute certainty that this man isn’t ill. He feels it. Feels it’s dirty presence devouring and corrupting and railing back against their faith. He knows what he’s been denying since he walked into the room: The thing on the bed isn’t a man. It’s something much, much older and much, much darker.

Craig hasn’t felt God in such a long time, but within that flickering candlelight within himself he thinks he can feel Him. Craig reaches for it, nurtures it with cupped hands within his mind. He finds himself calling for Him, begging for His love to touch this man once again. For his candlelight to shed the darkness.

It begins without preamble. Father Maxi steps forward, one hand clutching his crucifix as he begins to recite the word of God. Craig jerks his eyes down to the book he holds between his hands, finding the passage that his colleague is following flawlessly, and answering when prompted.

The thing on the bed looks bored, smirking and interrupting suddenly.

“God is a lie, you know,” It says conversationally. “It’s all a joke. As you kneel and prostrate yourselves before a being that doesn’t exist, you deny your true natures.”

Father Maxi ignores him, continuing his prayer. Craig’s attention is caught by that, however, momentarily startled by the comment.

The thing seems to notice, pouncing on the hesitation like an apex predator. “Oh, Father Tucker,” he purrs, eyes sliding to focus on Craig. It’s lids are heavy, lowered into an alluring, smouldering gaze, but all Craig can feel from it is hatred. “I feed on sin. You think I can’t smell your shame? You think it doesn’t taste delicious?”

Craig’s eyes widen at that, his grip on the book loosening as the man on the bed lies back and spreads his hands over his crotch, gripping and rubbing. His body writhes and rolls in a sickening imitation of pleasure as his throat hums like he’s starving. Distantly, Craig hears Father Maxi call his name, but his attention is caught, trapped and horrified, by the gross mockery of human pleasure.

“Blonds are your type, aren’t they, Father?” It grins, dry tongue slipping out to rub already raw lips, splitting and cracking. “Blonds with pretty dicks that fit snugly into that tight, little asshole of yours.”  
  
Craig goes cold. “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, but there’s no strength behind it. He can hear the fear ring out in his voice.

  
“Do you miss it, Father?” Tweek -no _It_ \- purrs. It’s meant to sound seductive, but it sounds thick in his throat like toxic sludge. “Do you miss getting fucked?”

“I-”

“ _Craig!_ ” Father Maxi shouts, forcefully grabbing his arm. The shock of it startles him back into reality. He drags his eyes back to the book and grits his teeth. “Don’t talk to It. Don’t let It provoke you. Stay strong, Father Tucker.”

Craig swallows and nods. “Sorry,” He murmurs, feeling like a scalded child.

The hand on his arm squeezes, comforting. “I wanted you here, Father Tucker. You have a strong heart and you’ve overcome so much. I have faith in you as I have faith in God.”

Craig nods again, firmer this time. “I’ll gladly send this thing back to Hell for what it’s doing to this poor man,” he says, brow set with conviction.

“Poor man? He’s a loser, useless to society. Ask Clydie-boy here. Who gives a shit about Tweek Tweak?” The demon laughs. It’s sharp and cold like smashed glass.

“He doesn’t deserve this!” Clyde shouts back. “He’s a nice person with a good heart!”

“A nice person,” the demon drawls. “Who cares about _nice_? He wasn’t nice enough to keep his parents, or his friends which,” he drops his voice conspiratorially, “let's be honest, weren’t _really_ his friends. I mean, he doesn’t have much to offer.”

“He’s a child of God,” Craig growls, affronted. He’s not a warm person. Nor is he a loving person. He’s a horrible priest, really. But if there’s one thing that he truly believes it’s that everyone has a right to exist. He watches day in, day out as people muddle and bumble through life. He hears their deepest, often utterly inane, fears. He finds them boring, sometimes pitiful, but above all else, he values them.

He nods at Father Maxi, firmer and stronger than before. He feels anger deep inside him, but it’s not dark and consuming. It’s bright. Bright and holy and hungry to cauterise the taint.

Father Maxi continues, voice as strong as ever.

“ _All ye Angels and Archangels_ ”

_“Pray for Us”_

“Your words mean nothing to me,” the creature hisses. It’s aggressive, but beneath it, Craig thinks he hears pain. “What do your pretty words mean to a cancer-ridden mother?”

_“All ye holy orders of blessed Spirits”_

_“Pray for us,”_ Craig responds, gripping the pages enough to crinkle them.

“And why does your church let your so-called soldiers of God rape little boys?” The creature says. It’s voice is an odd mix of a purr and a snarl. It reminds Craig of an animal suddenly. An animal that feels threatened after being backed into a corner.

 _“Saint Joseph,”_ Father Maxi says, his voice loud and steady.

 _“Pray for us,”_ Craig follows.

The figure on the bed falls to its back. A ghastly shriek of frustration peels from its mouth. It’s lip curls in a sneer and It convulses so abruptly that Craig nearly drops his book.

It stills. Something in the room shifts. The overwhelming stench of evil recedes. Suddenly it’s so silent it’s deafening.

Craig startles when Father Maxi lowers the hand clutching his crucifix and makes his way over to the bed. He sits his plump arse on the edge and reaches out to gently touch the thing’s face. Craig cautiously follows, fascinated, watching as Father Maxi careful strokes the skin.

“Is it over?” Craig asks, hushed with wonder.

Father Maxi shakes his head. “Not yet. It’s receded for a time to gather its strength. What we’re about to meet is the true personality.”

Craig nods, lost for words. He takes a moment to study the body of Tweek Tweak up close, wincing at how deathly ill he looks. His complexion is pallid, face framed by dirty and limp blond strands. A pale, straggly beard peppers his jaw, unkempt and neglected and spattered with rust-stain flecks of blood. His chest heaves, breath whistling in his throat as he struggles to breathe. He’s dying. The monster inside is killing him, starving and dehydrating him on the surface, consuming his soul underneath. Without police intervention, hooking him up to an IV, Craig thinks that he’d be dead by now, lost to a Hellish fate.

“It’ll get harder from here on out, Craig,” Father Maxi says softly. “It’s lost the element of surprise now and it’s going on the defensive. It’ll fight harder and it’ll fight nastier as we get closer to expeling it.”

“I’m ready,” Craig replies. And he is. His doubt has gone now and he feels stronger for it. He knows he’d rather die than lose this fight and, the first time in a long time, he truly feels that he walks with God.

His thoughts are interrupted by a quiet groan.

Surprised, Craig’s gaze sinks down to the bed watching as the body on it stirs. The movements are weak and have lost the inhuman edge to them. The face scrunches slightly, wincing in pain before relaxing. Slowly the eyes flutter open and Craig is surprised to see that they are green. Dull and tired, but no longer black.

“It’s okay,” Tweek says in a gentle voice, so utterly unlike before. “Let it take me. It’s right. I’m useless.”

“Hey!” Craig snaps, appalled by the suggestion. Tweek shifts a weary, faintly surprised look towards him. “Your friend told us about you. You’re a college drop-out like me, aren’t you? But you didn’t give up. You’ve done the best you can. You stayed kind. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. You’re capable of so much more than you think.”

Tweek smiles in response to that. It’s exhausted, but it’s genuine. Maybe even a little beautiful. “Thank you, Father,” he whispers.

“Keep fighting, Tweek,” Father Maxi says, reaching out to grip his hand. “We need you to fight it. We can’t do it alone.”

“I’ll try my best,” Tweek whispers. “It’s so strong though.”

“So are you,” Father Maxi says. “Nothing in this world is as strong as the human heart. That’s why demons covert it.”

Tweek nods, eyes slipping shut. Craig waits for him to speak again, but he realises a moment later that Tweek has passed out again. His brow is creased in a pained frown. Without thinking, Craig reaches out to smooth a hand over it.

“Can we get a washcloth? I want to get some of the grime off him,” Craig says.

Father Maxi nods. “It should be quiet for a little while longer. It’s recuperating.”

Craig nods. “I feel like we’re in the eye of the storm,” he admits.

“It’s a good analogy,” Father Maxi agrees. “Stay vigilant. The moment you let your guard down, it will pounce. It hasn’t truly gone away. It’s hiding.”

“We’ll have to rip it out by the roots then,” Craig says, grim.

He’s stirred from his thoughts when Clyde waves a small square of material in front of his face. Blinking, he reaches out for it, finding it damp. Wordlessly, he looks to Clyde, eyebrow arched in question.

Clyde shrugs. “It’s just my handkerchief. I’d get closer but…”

“It’s natural to be afraid,” Father Maxi says warmly as Craig folds the handkerchief and starts gently wiping muck from Tweek’s forehead. His skin isn’t much better than the grime, taught and grey. It reminds Craig of a corpse. The thought makes him hesitate for a moment as he’s caught in the eerie feeling of preparing a body for burial. He pushes the feeling away, scowling to himself, determined not to give up hope.

When the handkerchief comes away it’s filthy, but Tweek looks cleaner at least. Even if it does nothing to clean the abomination lurking beneath the surface, it makes Craig feel a little better. A little more ready.

Enough time passes for them to regroup, talking in hushed tones on the next stages. Craig’s instruction is simply to stay the course: keep following Father Maxi’s lead, and ignore It when It tries to attack his faith. He feels much more ready for It this time and it’s reflected in the way he draws himself up when that creeping, sickening feeling starts to fill the room again, blossoming out from the twitching figure on the bed.

“Father Maxi?” Craig says as the lights flicker ominously above their head.

“Yes, Father Tucker?” Father Maxi says, kissing his rosary and stepping forward.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you,” Craig admits, lifting his book once more. He trains his eyes on the text and almost misses Father Maxi’s response.

“That’s why it had to be you. That’s why I need a strong mind. Because that thing is made to prey on our most terrifying fears, our most hopeless wants, and our darkest urges.”

Craig nods, focussed. He’s seen the beast, but now he’s seen the man it’s clear to him whose side he’s on.

‘ _I will save you, Tweek. Keep fighting,’_ he thinks.

“How sweet of you,” a dark voice bubbles, filtering over from the bed. The shape of Tweek shifts, spine bending impossibly as it rolls into a sitting position. It fixes them with a black-eyed stare, but this time there’s no taunting friendliness there. It’s gaze burns with hate, set in a face that’s otherwise slack. “You washed this meatsack’s face. Do you want it to look nice for it’s burial? If you uncuff me, I’ll scratch it’s eyes out for you. Make a show of it.”

 _“All ye holy Patriarchs and Prophets,”_ Father Maxi says in response.

 _“Pray for us,”_ Craig is quick to answer.

“Right to business? How boring,” the demon says with an inconvenienced huff.

Father Maxi continues, voice steady. Craig follows him, feeling confidence bloom in his chest when he notices the discomfort the creature seems to be in. It’s the most human-like Craig has seen It, hiding winces and shudders behind a deadpan expression.

“Why do you worship such a cruel God?” It says suddenly after minutes have ticked by. “Where was he when that man found your mother and father asleep in bed?”

Craig startles, stumbling over his next words, eyes going wide. He makes the mistake of looking up. The thing on the bed’s face shifts, morphing from that blank expression to a nasty grin. Distantly, Craig realises that he’s fucked up, and the demon knows it too.

“Your dad started to wake up didn’t he? They found him sitting up,” the creature purrs.

“Stop-” Craig responds, voice raw.

“Do you think God was in the room when that human lifted his gun and shot them both neatly in the head?” The thing grins as Craig recoils, looking as gleeful as a child with fat swirl of candy floss. “ _Bang! Bang!_ ”

“Stop it!” Craig roars.

“Father Tucker!” Father Maxi shouts. “You must ignore it.”

“Shame it wasn’t so quick for your sister wasn’t it? Shot in the back as she tried to run. She choked on her own blood as her lungs collapsed didn’t she?” It asks in a conversational tone.

Craig snaps. Surging forward, he lifts the crucifix in his hand and thrusts it out feeling a nasty sense of victory run through him at the way the creature flinches back. “Anything else, _motherfucker_?” He spits. The monster on the bed grins a horrible grin in response.

Father Maxi is only a step behind, grabbing Craig’s arm and hauling him back with surprising strength. His voice is soft, despite his actions, spoken low and soothing. “Craig, Craig, wrath is not ours to wield. We must fight with love. That young man needs us. Don’t listen to the creature inside him. _Don’t_ let it win.”

Craig struggles for a long moment, eyes burning with anger and something else entirely. For years he’s teetered on the edge, walking that fine line, torn between loving God and hating Him. He realises with grim certainty that he is a wildcard in all this, and Father Maxi knows it. What Father Maxi sees as strength and resilience in him is also their greatest risk. Father Maxi knows it, and the demon knows it. Now Craig is all too aware of it too.

Somehow he digs deep, deeper than he knew he could, and finds solid ground. He sucks in a breath, remembers himself and stands straight again.

“Sorry,” he mutters, gripping his crucifix with white knuckles.

“Don’t be. It wants to get to you, but only because it’s scared. We’re getting closer, Craig,” Father Maxi says, all kindness and light.

Craig stares at him for a moment. Sees the man who got him through the worst imaginable times. Finds the strength there to grip the book tighter and nod with genuine conviction.

Father Maxi nods back and switches course, switching to Latin and uttering a Hail Mary. Craig joins him with practiced smoothness, their voices intertwining almost melodically.

The thing on the bed recoils this time, drawing protectively in on itself and hissing through bared teeth. Craig can feel strength gather and swirl around them both. Can almost _see_ it leech from the demon back into them. The horrified shock from earlier still shakes him, an old wound gouged back open, but Craig is back in control, gripping on tightly to his faith. With each stroke of _Hail Mary full of grace_ , the demon falls quieter, cringing back and pulling weakly at the handcuffs. It spits out some words in a language Craig doesn’t understand but knows vaguely. He can tell from the vicious tone that he doesn’t need to be fluent to know that It’s cursing them.

By the time the demon lies flat again, pinned up the bed by an unseen force, Father Maxi steps forward, driven by some sort of holy order. He switches to the Lord’s Prayer, tipping some holy water onto his thumb and drawing a crucifix upon Tweek’s brow. The creature releases an unholy shriek, stretching out across the grimy mattress. Then, in a move that leaves Craig dumbfounded, It surges forward, teeth snapping. Acting purely on instinct, Craig hurls himself at Father Maxi, throwing him into the wall. The demon snarls angrily and flops back to the bed like a rag doll.

Silence falls heavily for a long moment. Winded, Father Maxi huffs for breath, swallowing noisily.

“Well,” he says. “Nearly lost my fingers there. Thank you, Father Tucker.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Clyde says in a rough voice. Craig looks over his shoulder, having forgot that he was there. He feels bad when he does. The guy is clearly out of his depth (not that Craig is much better), pale and wide-eyed. His gun is useless and the situation is totally outside of his jurisdiction. He’s here purely as someone who once knew Tweek which, frankly, is probably more helpful than anything else he can offer. It seems to Craig that Clyde is all the moral support that he has, but at least it’s better than nothing.

“If you want to press charges…” Clyde says, leaving the sentence unfinished. Craig and Father Maxi ignore it, figuring it to be something that Clyde duty-bound to say.

Craig turns his attention to Father Maxi, running his hands over his shoulders. “You alright?” He asks, concerned.

“I’m alright,” Father Maxi replies, patting Craig on the arm. “Thank you for your quick thinking.”

Craig nods, going to say more when a soft noise distracts him. Straightening, he peers at the bed and finds Tweek groaning quietly, brow snagged in a frown. Craig feels as if he can instinctively tell that Tweek is back in control. His expressions, even the minute movements of his form seem more natural. More human.

“Tweek? Can your hear me?” Craig asks. Tweek’s frown flinches slightly, but he doesn’t manage to open his eyes or utter words this time.

“The demon’s grip is strong now. It’s licking its wounds and redoubling its efforts on Mr. Tweak,” Father Maxi says in a soft voice. “If It breaks him down enough for him to give in, it wins the battle.”

“What do we do?” Craig asks.

“Talk to him. Pray for him,” Father Maxi says, squeezing Craig’s shoulder. “A familiar voice should help. Clyde?”

Clyde stands to attention. It’d be comical if not for the situation. “You need _me?_ ” He says sounding somewhere between hopeful and terrified.

Father Maxi nods, giving him a kind smile. “Please, Clyde. We can pray for him, but you know him. He might respond to a familiar voice.”

Clyde nods and gulps, sitting cautiously on the edge of the bed. “What do I say?”

“Just talk to him, anything that might help him anchor himself,” Father Maxi says.

Craig watches in silent fascination as Clyde searches around the room, as if searching for inspiration on the dingy, featureless walls. Next to him, Father Maxi bows his head and starts murmuring in prayer. Craig follows his lead, bowing his head and joining in his prayer, falling into an easy rhythm with him.

Distantly he hears Clyde talking about some song Tweek sang in elementary school. Craig sort of understands why Father Maxi suggested Clyde be the one to speak to Tweek. Clyde may not have been in Tweek’s close circle of friends in recent years, but the fondness with which he speaks to him is genuine. He knows the man behind the demon. Hopefully he can reach him too.

 

**

 

Craig isn’t sure how much time passes before the room grows colder once again. It’s insidious, that cold, creeping dread spilling across the room like tendrils. Craig almost doesn’t notice until he’s wrapped up in it. When he does, it’s a sharp realisation that hits him like a slap to the face.

His head snaps up, voice hard when he speaks. “Clyde, _move.”_

Clyde reacts on instinct, stumbling backwards to his feet only seconds before the demon springs up, teeth snapping.

“Fuck,” the demon says before a nasty laugh escapes his throat. “Nearly tore your throat out there, Clydie-boy! That would be hysterical wouldn’t it? Saved from the demon only to get a steel ride for killing a cop!”

“Jesus,” Clyde whispers, bringing a hand up to touch his neck gently.

“Jesus is a fairy tale,” the demon says, cruelly dismissive.

“And yet you seem to fear Him,” Father Maxi says. “Are you ready to tell us your name, creature?”

The demon laughs in a raucous guffaw. “I’ll see this sack of shit rot before I give you my name.”

Father Maxi doesn’t respond immediately, tossing sprinkles of holy water over the host’s body instead. The demon hisses and tries to pull back as much as the cuffs will allow.

“Speak your name,” Father Maxi says again.

“Fuck you, _priest,”_ the demon spits the word like acid. It’s voice has warped, deeper than before, ancient and reverberating.

“Very well,” Father Maxi says. He nods to Craig, who steps back and scoops the book back into his palms.

 _“O Lamb of God, that takes away the sins of the world,”_ Father Maxi says. His voice is more powerful this time. The lights flicker overhead and the walls seem to pulse.

 _“Graciously hear us, Lord,”_ Craig replies, filled with his own sense of confidence this time. He feels a power that he’s not sure is his own filling him until it spills over the brim and out of his mouth, knitting around his words.

Despite this being a new and entirely crazy situation, Craig is sure that they’re getting close now. He can feel the climax approaching. He knows that the battle is reaching its peak.

The lights flick on and off with an electric hum and the bars in the window rattle so hard it sounds as if an unseen force is trying to rip them from the walls.

Then, suddenly, there’s quiet. Craig is startled to see wide, green eyes staring at him from a frightened face.

“Help me,” Tweek begs. “Please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“ _O Lamb of God, that takes away the sins of the world,_ ” Father Maxi responds. Craig snaps his eyes over towards him, shocked as his mentor ignores the way that Tweek jerks and cries out.

“Please!” He begs.

“ _O Lamb of God, that takes away the sins of the world,_ ” Father Maxi continues, acting as if he cannot hear the pleas.

“Father Maxi!” Craig gasps, taken aback by Father’s Maxi’s lack of compassion.

“Father Tucker,” Father Maxi says, stern. “ _Continue_.”

“Continue?” Craig shouts, horrified. “Can’t you see you’re hurting him!”

“Please!” Tweek begs. “Please let me go!”

“ _Extend your senses,_ Father. _Feel_ ,” Father Maxi says, keeping his eyes trained on Tweek. “It hasn’t receded.”

“But-”

“Craig,” Father Tucker cuts him off. “ _Feel.”_

Reluctantly, Craig turns his attention back to Tweek. Tweek’s eyes are wet with tears. He shakes his head, terrified, lips sketching a silent plea. It tugs sharply at Craig’s heart, causing a surge of protectiveness to run through him.

He wavers for a moment, hands flexing with desire to seek out Tweek’s bruised and torn wrists, and free him once and for all. It’s only a small, quiet feeling that holds him back. Against every shred of logic he possesses, Craig listens. He drags his eyes away from Tweek, closing them and reaching out.

What he finds is darkness so deep it leaves him breathless. He jerks on the spot, feeling as if he’s standing on the edge of an abyss. The air, he realises, still reeks of the stagnant, filthy taint. His skin crawls and his heart recoils.

He almost loses himself for a moment, but his faith keeps him steady, wrapping around him and sinking into his shoulders. When Craig opens his eyes again, he lifts the book back up and reads: “Graciously hear us, Lord”.

The demon snarls in retaliation, expression warping into something inhuman. “You _fucker!”_ It rages, jerking forward as much as the restraints will allow before throwing Itself back like a child mid-tantrum.

Father Maxi nods, too serious to look pleased, but Craig feels more than sees his approval. He continues on, reciting steadily and without pause whilst all Craig can do is read out the text in front of him.

“If you send me back I’ll fuck your mother’s juicy cunt in Hell. I’ll fuck her ‘til the sun burns out! Do you hear me, priest? She’ll scream!” The demon rages, eyes wide and bulging like a dying bull. The muscles in It’s host’s neck stand out as it strains and writhes on the dirty mattress. It looks a little like It’s flapping great, unseen wings, desperate now, seized by something that looks a lot like fight or flight.

Still Father Maxi continues, ignoring the creature’s crude threats. He looms over the writhing form on the bed, showering him with holy words. He breaks off when the thing wails, contorting It’s host’s spine horrifically as It drowns in agony.

“Speak your name!” Father Maxi demands.

“Go fuck yourself!” The demon shrieks, twisting Tweek’s hands into claws, ripping at the threadbare sheets. A stench fills the room, more base and human than the acrid evil this thing emanates. Craig realises that It’s released It’s host’s bowels, staining the sheets with rancid, watery shit.

“In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ I command you to tell me your name!” Father Maxi perseveres, looking beyond the man whose body has been so utterly violated. He sees only the demon now, fixed on it with eyes that burn with righteous fury.

“No-oo!” The creature wails, snarling like a dying animal. The walls seem to groan around them in response. “I refuse!”

Father Maxi thrusts his fist forward, holding his crucifix aloft like a shield. He moves within biting distance, but this time the demon only flinches back with a thick cry that bubbles out of It’s throat.

“Speak your name. _I command you, demon._ Speak your name!” Father Maxi booms.

“Urobach!” The demon howls, agonised and defeated. The word sounds as if it’s been ripped out from It’s very core, wrung from him like a confession. “Fuck you! You cunt! You holy man! I hope the maggots take you!”

Despite the fury pouring from It, Craig feels something almost cosmic click into place. He feels a sudden calmness overcome him, even as he watches the holy battle unfold before him. He knows that the tide has turned now. Knows without being told that learning the demon’s name is a major step towards victory.

“Urobach, by the power of Christ I compel you to leave this man! Return to the Hell you came from!” Father Maxi commands.

Urobach flinches on the bed, releasing a hideous shriek. It pulls at the cuffs and for an alarming moment, as the metal of the bed groans and bends, Craig fears that he’s celebrated their victory too soon.

The show of impossible strength peters out as quickly as it arose, Urobach’s control slipping away from limbs that aren’t his own. It snarls, frustrated, fixing Craig with a hate-filled glare.

“I’ll make sure I find your family, Father Tucker,” It hisses. “I’ll make them suffer for what you’ve done to me.”

“You can try,” Craig hisses back. “But you won’t find them in Hell.”

 _“The Lord Jesus Christ compels you, Urobach. The Saints compel you. The holy mother compels you! Leave this man and never return!”_ Father Maxi cries, signing the cross with every command. The room fills with an impossible wind, swirling like a barely-contained tornado, whipping their robes and tearing at the pages of the bible cradled in Craig’s hands.

Still, Father Maxi continues, voice clear and thunderous over the roar of the unholy gale. _“We cast you out, every unclean spirit, every satanic power, every onslaught of the infernal adversary, every legion, every diabolical group and sect, in the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ!”_

The demon thrashes with each holy gesture, howling in loss and fury. It lets out one, enormous, terrifying roar sounding so much like it’s broken free of Hell itself. In that sound Craig can feel nothing by endless, black hate sweeping the room, filling his nostrils and throat. All of a sudden the room feels impossibly full. Craig falls to one knee under the weight, clutching his head. Clyde shouts behind him and the window groans before shattering with an enormous crash. Craig feels his heart thud with panic, the very real fear that he’s being crushed to death flooding through him.

As suddenly as it happened, everything stops. For a moment all Craig can hear is his own breathing. A second later, the clink or falling glass startles him from his stupor. He realises that he’s gripping the book he’s holding so tightly that it’s cutting into his fingers and making them ache. He lowers it slowly, hands shaking badly, and looks up at Father Maxi.

Father Maxi is breathing hard. He reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief and pats his brow dry.

“Is it over?” Clyde whispers, awe-struck and fearful all at once.

Father Maxi looks over towards him and nods once, slowly. “It’s gone,” he says.

Craig struggles back to his feet. All three men stand in silence for a long time until a quiet groan breaks them from their attempts to process what just happened.

Father Maxi falls back into the form of a kind, old priest with practiced ease. He moves to sit upon the bed, reaching out to touch Tweek’s face.

Tweek’s eyes peel open with painful effort. He’s exhausted, degraded and filthy but somehow, he manages a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Clyde rushes forward, the consummate professional, hands flying out to check his vitals. Craig can only stare as they fret around Tweek, releasing his wrists and checking him over with gentle touches and hushed tones. Even after Tweek has passed out again, Craig remains fixed in place, dumbfounded by image of Tweek’s smile etched in his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rituale Romanum is a real thing and extraordinarily long. Frankly, this chapter is long enough as it is!
> 
> For those of you who are sticking with this story: hey, look! It's Tweek! I promised you he'd be in it!
> 
>  
> 
> Not really a huge twist on imp!Tweek, but Urobach sort of fit the bill. He's a weird little red gremlin-type demon. He's a nasty little shit, isn't he? Dropping the c-bomb like that...


	5. Chapter 4

“Blessed be St. Joseph, he most chaste spouse-” his prayer pauses momentarily, it’s fluency stuttered by the fresh arrival as Craig’s eyes dart to the newly-opened door. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care, but the emergence of a familiar figure surprises him enough to lose the flow of his words, and he stumbles in a way he hasn’t before.

Scowling to himself, he lowers his eyes, picking up pace once more, frustrated with the slight wobble in his voice.

“Blessed be God in his angels and in his saints. Amen.”

The returned _Amen_ echoes through the church as his congregation murmur in melodic unison. A hush falls over them as he moves to commence holy communion. Although he settles into auto-pilot, he finds his eyes continually straying to the lone figure sitting on one of the furthest pews, even as he blesses familiar faces.

Once done, he makes to head over. Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Haggarty intercepts him, withered hands reaching out for his.

“Oh, Father,” she says in a croak, her bony hands gripping Craig’s like a bald eagle gripping hapless prey. “I was hoping that I may speak to you about my Granddaughter again.”

Craig barely refrains from allowing himself a sigh. Mrs. Haggarty likes to regale him with tales of her wayward granddaughter. From what Craig’s heard, she doesn’t attend church, has sex outside of marriage, and seems hell-bent on proving her worth above the men in her workplace. Personally, Craig thinks she sounds kind of awesome. She reminds him of a girl he once knew, but Mrs. Haggarty seems fixed on an interpretation of the bible from the dark ages and so, seeks constant reassurance from Craig that her grandchild isn’t doomed to damnation.

“Of course, Mrs. Haggarty,” Craig says, joining her on the pew. He sends a quick glance towards the back of the church and receives an understanding look in return.

It takes a few minutes of reassurance from Craig that her granddaughter is just young and finding her own way in life. He assured her that she will find God when she’s ready to and that He will welcome her. He slips in his slightly more liberal views that God cherishes free will and that trying to understand the choices that Mrs. Haggarty’s granddaughter has made rather than damning her for them might make her more receptive (and give the poor girl a break.)

It’s the same script he repeats every few weeks to her, but as usual she nods eagerly, shakes his hands, and manages to slip in her usual, quick confession (this week didn’t tell her husband she’d bought a box of chocolates and had snaffled the lot herself. For shame.)

By the time the church is empty, his guest has been waiting for around twenty minutes. Craig tries to feel guilty about it, but he’s more intrigued by anything.

He makes his way over and sits heavily on the pew where Tweek has been waiting with quiet patience.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Craig observes, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

It’s been a little over two weeks since he last saw Tweek Tweak and he wears it well. He’s still a little gaunt and his eyes are heavily shadowed, but he looks healthier. He looks _alive_. The colour has returned to his face, now a creamy peach as opposed to pallid grey, easy to see now that he’s shed the beard. His hair, no longer limp and matted, sits atop his head in a messy mop of baby blond. It frames his face, drawing out the mellow green of his eyes. He’s still littered with scratches, but they’re healing and look free of infection, leaving pale pink criss-crosses on his skin, dancing over bruises that have faded to yellow, soon to disappear.

Tweek shrugs, sending him a shy smile. “Sorry I came unannounced.”

“It’s fine,” Craig says. He turns his head to nod towards the door. “That’s the thing about churches. It’s pretty much an open invite.”

“That’s good. I’m not really caught up with church etiquette,” Tweek says, still smiling that little smile. Craig recognises the nervousness that lies behind it and realises that just stepping through the doors must have taken some courage.

“It’s pretty much the same basic etiquette you use when you go and visit some old Grandma- so long as you’re not running around naked, or flicking boogers in the holy water, or yelling about the Virgin Mary being something explicit, you’re fine,” Craig says.

Tweek stares at him for a moment, slightly taken aback. Then he laughs. It’s a nervous sound, but there’s something freeing beneath it. “Okay, you’re not what I thought a priest would be like.”

“I get that a lot,” Craig replies in a dry voice.

Tweek laughs again, more of a chuckle this time. “Yeah? I guess exorcists are kinda generally different though, huh?”

“Trust me, I’m no exorcist,” Craig replies. At Tweek’s perplexed look, Craig admits: “I was more there to read out some lines and push some faith your way. Father Maxi is the guy who did all the work.”

For a long moment Tweek simply gazes at him, lost in thoughts that Craig can’t possibly imagine. Then he shakes his head. “That’s bullshit, man. You saved me-” Tweek breaks off suddenly, clapping his hand over his mouth. “Oh shit. No! Not shit! I mean _shoot_ .” He pauses to wince. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to curse. Or call you _man._ I’m such a mess, Jesus Christ.”

Unable to help himself, Craig’s amusement at Tweek’s hapless struggling makes his lips quirk up and a soft snort of laughter escape his nose. “Don’t worry about it, dude,” Craig says, putting Tweek out of his misery. “It’s not generally advisable to curse in a church, but God isn’t going to send a thunderbolt your way for saying ‘ _shit_.’”

Tweek nods, still looking slightly mortified, and ducks his head towards the altar. “Um. Amen?”

Craig snorts again, but doesn’t have the heart to correct him. Tweek is clearly not a practicing Catholic and Craig isn’t about to start playing the ‘my religion is better than yours’ game. He’s just glad to see that Tweek is looking healthy.

They sit in silence for a while longer. It isn’t until Tweek fidgets that Craig realises he's been staring at him and averts his eyes.

“Um…” Tweek starts. He fidgets again, shifting in his seat. Craig starts to feel a little like he’s about to take confession, but then Tweek turns to him with his face set in a determined scowl. “I came to say thank you.”

Craig blinks. “You don’t need to thank me, like I said, Father Maxi-”

“-Did most of the work, _and_ he’s found me somewhere to say while I get on my feet,” Tweek interrupts him. “But I’ve already said thank you to him several times. I’ve thanked Clyde -I mean _Chief Donovan_ \- too. But you were there too. You helped save my life. My soul even. So I had to come and see you. I had to say thank you to you too, Father Tucker.”

Craig feels a little taken aback. Tweek is flushed with passion, face scrunched with so much conviction that he looks almost comical. If Craig’s honest with himself, he’d half expected Tweek to be a fragile mess after the events leading up to and during possession. He’s pleasantly surprised to see that he’s full of stubborn desire to live instead. It makes Craig feel doubly glad that they were able to save a soul so determined to grip onto the light.

“Okay, okay,” Craig says, relenting. “You’ve thanked me. Obviously, you’re very welcome, Mr. Tweak,” Craig says with a small smile.

Tweek scrunches his face in disgust. “Please call me Tweek. Mr. Tweak is my father. Not that it makes much difference with a name like mine,” he says in a tone of voice that makes it very clear what he thinks about his own name.

Craig doesn’t push it, nodding instead. “Tweek it is.”

They lapse into a peaceful silence. Tweek seems comfortable for one unfamiliar with the church, and Craig finds him a welcome break from his usual flock. After some time has slipped by, Craig rises smoothly to his feet, causing Tweek to look up at the action.

Craig skirts his eyes around the otherwise empty church. On little more than an inexplicable whim, he meets Tweek’s eyes and asks; “Do you want to grab a coffee?”

Tweek’s face lights up and he nods quickly. “Yeah. I’d love to,” He says in a voice so warm that for a moment, it makes Craig feel warm too.

 

**

 

Craig never brings parishioners back to the rectory but then, he considers as he unlocks the heavy wooden door, Tweek is not a parishioner and the circumstances of their meeting was a little more exceptional than most.

He tosses the keys carelessly into an old china plate he keeps face-up on the shelf. It had come with the furniture, but it was so Goddamn ugly that Craig was loath to put it anywhere he would be able to frequently see it. It was a neat key-holder though, so that is exactly what it had become upon Craig’s residence there.

Stepping across the threshold and his tattered welcome mat, he toes off his neat black oxfords and pushes them to one side with his foot.

Tweek follows suit, bending forward to untie the laces of his scruffy, but comfortable looking converse and pulling them off with his hands. He lays them near to Craig’s and wriggles his socked toes as he stands upon the mat. 

“Come on in,” Craig says, inclining his head and moving towards the sitting area. He flops unceremoniously into his favourite armchair (a hideous, floral thing that still held a plushness beyond its years) and pulls his dog collar off.

“Mind if I smoke?” He asks as Tweek sits with a little more grace on the mismatched sofa.

Tweek shakes his head. “I don’t mind,” he says.

Craig sends a quick thanks to God and immediately digs around the side of the chair for his cigarettes and his lighter. He finds them with practiced ease and flips the carton open, making an irritated noise when he sees he only has three left. He pulls a cigarette out, taps it twice and lifts it to his lips, sucking when he flicks his lighter to life and singes the end. He takes a deep inhale, praises God again, and gets to his feet, heading over towards the small window to pull it open.

When he glances back, snapping out of the autopilot of habit, he finds Tweek’s eyes on him, wide with surprise.

“What?” Craig asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Nothing!” Tweek says, although it sounds more like a squeak.

“Spit it out,” Craig shoots back, blowing a jet of smoke out of the window.

“You’re just…” Tweek pauses, searching for the right words. “You’re just not like how I expected a priest to be.”

“We’re just as human as the rest of you,” Craig says. It’s not the first time it’s been said to him. He knows himself that he’s a piss poor priest, but he’s met worse. He at least doesn't make any excuses for who he is.

“I’m sorry,” Tweek says, ducking his head. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Craig studies him again. He can see from his posture that Tweek is a man who has suffered a lot of rejection throughout his life. It’s in the slightly defeated haunch of his shoulders and the submissive bow of his head. It plays at odds with the fiery will to live that Craig has seen and admires. He’s fascinating, really. Even beyond the demon that once resided in him.

“You didn’t offend me,” Craig says instead. “We’re a mixed bag and unfortunately, too few of us are like Father Maxi.”

Tweek smiles again at that, lifting his head and nodding eagerly. “He’s amazing,” Tweek says.

“Yeah,” Craig admits. “He is.”

They fall into silence again, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable, at least not to Craig. He smokes his cigarette and gazes out of the window, trying not to get lost in his own memories. When it’s burnt down, he stubs it out and closes the window, dropping the butt into a hideous, ornate vase.

“Don’t judge me for the décor,” Craig says, gifting Tweek with a small smirk.

Involuntarily, Tweek’s eyes roam around the room, passing over knicknacks and upholstery. “No,” he says, too delayed to be genuine. “No it’s… homey.”

“It reeks of grandma,” Craig says.

“Okay,” Tweek relents. “It’s hideous.” They share a laugh at that. “Not your choice, I’m guessing?”

“Nope,” Craig agrees. “But it’s free, so who am I to complain?”

Tweek nods, looking far too understanding. Craig winces, feeling like a bit of an ass.

“Sorry,” He says, surprised at how soft his own voice sounds. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“What?” Tweek replies, his eyes wide. “No! Please don’t be sorry about that! I’m so much better off than I could be. I mean, I could be on the streets. The shelter… it’s a roof over my head and water to wash with. I’m lucky that Father Maxi found me a space. Some guys in there have been on the streets for months.”

Craig observes him and is surprised to see that same resilience lighting Tweek’s features. The guy has a right to be angry at the world: possessed by a monster, degraded and used, and then to add insult to injury, kicked out by parents who claim to be afraid of him.

He’s almost literally been through Hell and found no one waiting for him on the other side, and still, he’s trying his best.

Craig can’t help but smile. “You’re surprisingly strong-willed for a shrimp.”

At that, Tweek’s face crumples into a scowl, although it’s clear he’s not too mad. “Screw you, dude,” he huffs. “I’m only a little below average. Plus I bet I could kick your ass-” he stops himself again, clapping a hand over his mouth. “I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t threaten to kick priests’ asses,” he says a moment later, looking bashful.

“I forgive you. I’m not wearing the collar, so if you squint you could mistake me for a goth,” Craig smirks, amused.

Tweek laughs again at that, a peel of jovial sound that ends in a cute snort. “Oh my god. Goth priest. What an oxymoron.”

Craig’s smirk widens into a grin. They share another laugh and settle into silence again before a stray thought hits Craig. “How’d you take your coffee? I’m an excellent host as you can see. It only took me twenty minutes to remember why I invited you over.”

Tweek swivels on the sofa, following Craig as he passes by on his way to the kitchenette. “Black, no sugar.”

Craig nods, busying himself with the percolator. Tweek speaks up again, raising his voice enough to carry over the clinks and clunks that Craig is making.

“I get the impression you’re not really the dinner party type,” he says.

Craig snorts, grabbing two mugs. “Are you crazy? My parishioners scare the shit out of me.”

“More than a demon?” Tweek shoots back.

Craig pauses in what he’s doing, impressed that Tweek can already crack jokes about it. His coping mechanisms are reassuringly aligned to Craig’s and Craig kind of digs it.

“I dunno,” Craig replies, pouring coffee. “Some are pretty creepy.”

When he rejoins Tweek, two mugs in hand, Tweek sits up and tucks his feet under himself. He reaches out and accepts the mug with a hum of pleasure, clutching it close to his chest like it’s a treasure.

Craig sinks back into his armchair, resting the mug precariously on the arm in an act that smacks of habit.

“You seem to like coffee,” Craig nods towards where Tweek grips the mug, mouse-like.

“Mmm,” Tweek hums, lifting it to his nose and inhaling. “I grew up in a coffee shop,” he explains. “Much as I’ve spent most of my life addicted to it, something about the smell always makes me feel at home.”

Craig gets it, sort of. He feels something similar when he’s out of his dog collar and finds himself flipping someone off.

He veers away from the impromptu journey down memory lane and takes a sip of scalding coffee instead.

“Don’t judge me too harshly,” he says, smacking his lips. “My coffee is trash.”

“The coffee at the shelter comes from a machine,” Tweek counters. “This’ll taste like Harbucks in comparison.” As if the prove his point, Tweek takes a hearty slurp.

Craig watches him for a moment before returning his attention to his mug. “It sucks that you have to stay at a shelter… I’m sorry,” he says, sombre.

Tweek looks up at him. For the first time that evening, Craig sees a flash of sadness. Even if it’s just for a second, Craig sees the vulnerability that lurks just beneath the surface. Tweek doesn’t allow it to linger, shrugging with one shoulder and looking away. “Can’t be helped,” he says. “My parents were never the best. I think what happened to me was a good excuse to finally cut me loose without looking like failures.”

Craig stays silent. He wonders if he should have stayed silent on the matter, but then Tweek continues.

“They were bad parents when I look back on it. They put shit into me without my knowledge or consent. But despite all that, I loved them, you know?” Tweek says, staring into the black depths of his coffee. “I still do. I forgave them a lot, but they couldn’t extend me the same kindness. So you know, no matter how shitty things are, maybe I’m better off without them.”

Craig watches him for a moment, impressed. He suspects that Tweek has been dealing with disappointing parents for a long time. He sounds resigned and much, much older than his years.

“How are you doing for money?” Craig wouldn’t ordinarily ask a virtual stranger something so intimate, but he can’t help but want to get an idea of how much time Tweek will need to stand back on his own two feet again.

“Not great,” Tweek admits. “I have some savings, but my parents are currently holding on to them saying that they think I’m going to go and spend it on heroin or something.”

“Heroin?” Craig asks.

Tweek looks over at him, wordlessly lifting his arm and wriggling his hand, letting his sleeve fall down. The skin underneath is recovering as his face is, fading bruises and scratch-marks littering the skin. From what Craig can see though, there’s no sign of track marks, which is what he assumes Tweek is trying to show him. “They blame demonic possession on me being lost to smack,” Tweek explains. “I’ve honestly never touched the stuff so I don’t know if it makes people act like there’s a fucking demon inside them, but it’s their story and they’re sticking to it.”

Craig feels a bit of guilt creep up on him. Heroin had been his first thought too, back when he’d been trying to rationalise all of this. He thinks it wise to keep his mouth shut on that one.

“Couldn’t you go to the police and demand your money?” Craig asks instead.

“Honestly I feel like I’m walking a fine line with the cops,” Tweek says. “I’m only alive because Clyde -Captain Donovan- called you guys. I attacked people. _Bit_ them. Acted in a way that should’ve seen me institutionalised for the next ten years. I really don’t want to involve the cops unless I have to.”

“But if you’re struggling…” Craig leaves the thought unfinished.

Tweek follows though, shrugging that one-shoulder shrug. “I’m alive. That’s more than most in my position. And I’m making small bits of money. I bake.” He breaks off to smile at Craig, genuine happiness touching the corners of his eyes. “I’ve always loved baking, so I help out at the shelter, baking for a local café to raise funds. It gives me enough for the essentials like toothpaste and bus fair to do things like visit you today.”

Craig makes an unhappy noise at that. “You shouldn’t be spending your hard earned money on visiting a useless priest like me,” Craig says in a chiding tone.

To his surprise, Tweek grins and totes his mug. “Are you kidding?” He says. “I got to talk to one of three people who actually believes that I’m not crazy, and I got a huge mug of coffee. That’s well worth the bus fair.”

“Yeah, well I’ll feel like an asshole if I don’t drive you back,” Craig says. “So when you’re ready to go, I’ll drive you.”

“Dude, you don’t have to do that-”

“I insist,” Craig cuts him off. He tries not to dwell on the fact that being so helpful -even as a priest- is out of character, focusing instead on finishing his coffee.

“Well thank you, Father Tucker,” Tweek says, humbled. “I really appreciate it.”

Craig waves his hand, dismissing his gratitude. “It’s not exactly a mission,” he answers, ending the conversation.

They chat a little more as the evening slips by, and Craig makes them a further two cups of coffee. He learns that Tweek is a fellow native Coloradoan, considered studying musical theatre before switching to catering at a local community college until he dropped out, and was harassed for several years by underpants gnomes. The latter, Craig assumes, is a joke, but he feels as if he’s missing the punchline when, eyes twinkling, Tweek moves the discussion on.

He’s eloquent, easy company. When Craig notes the time, stunned by how late it’s got, he finds himself questioning why on Earth Tweek doesn’t have any friends.  He doesn’t ask, of course. Even _he_ isn’t that insensitive. He just can’t make sense of it.

“Do you mind if we draw the evening to a close?” Craig asks, stretching in his seat.

For a moment, Tweek looks a little crestfallen, but when he glances at the clock on the wall, he flushes with embarrassment instead. “Oh Jesus. Oh God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

Craig waves it off. “I know you don’t know me well, but if you were bothering me, I would have told you to fuck off by now.”

Tweek nods his understanding. His face crumples into a weirded-out expression half a second later. “I swear, it’s so weird hearing a priest say _fuck_.”

Craig shrugs, slipping into his coat. “Like you said earlier, I’m not a ‘usual’ priest.”

Tweek pulls his jacket on, a second-hand affair that doesn’t suit him in the slightest. If he’d kept the beard he would have made a good impression of an 80s ski teacher, but Craig thinks it’s distasteful to air the joke aloud.

They leave shoulder to shoulder, Craig leading them to his car. It’s an old, grey Toyota Prius that Craig thinks suits him just fine.

Tweek doesn’t pass comment on it as he settles into the passenger seat and buckles up, rubbing his hands together at the chill in the night air. Craig takes pity on him, starting the engine up and flicking the heater on.

“What’s the shelter’s name?” Craig asks, sliding his phone out of his pocket and pulling up his maps app.

“Saint Francis Centre,” Tweek answers. “It’s on Curtis Street?”

Craig nods as he finds it, tapping on directions. He’s surprised to find its only six miles away and oddly, he feels a little glad about it too.

They spend the twenty minute journey chatting. Tweek is more of a talker out of the two of them, but Craig finds himself falling into the habit of answering. Tweek seems taken aback by his blunt honesty initially, but he seems to quickly grow used to it.

By the time Craig pulls up outside the centre, he’s surprised once again by how quickly time seems to have passed. He turns to watch Tweek as he unclips his seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. He hesitates for a moment, as if waiting for something, before uttering a quiet, little laugh to himself.

“Thank you, Father,” he says. “For everything.”

Craig almost doesn’t speak in time. Tweek jerks the handle and steps out into the night. It’s only when the door starts to swing shut that Craig snaps out of whatever daze he’s fallen into and shouts an involuntary “Wait!”

Tweek’s head pops back into the car at a funny angle, face alight with curiosity. “Yes?”

“Come by again,” Craig says, only half aware of what he’s saying. “If you want another coffee, I mean. At least one that’s better than machine coffee.”

Tweek’s face lights up. He nods eagerly and laughs. “It’s not quite Harbucks, but it’s pretty damn close so I may have to take you up on that.”

Craig nods. “Well… you know where I am,” he says lamely.

Tweek smiles at that. It fills his entire face with a expression that he looks like he was born to wear. “I do, Father. Thank you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Craig responds dumbly. Too late given that the passenger door has already swung shut.

He doesn’t bother to flick the radio on as he drives home. He uses the silence to guide his thoughts, mind filled with reflections of the evening. By the time he reaches home, tosses his keys into that ugly plate and flopped his tired body down into his floral armchair, Craig realises that he’s spent the entire time thinking about Tweek.

Disbelieving, he allows himself a little laugh at the revelation that, somehow, Tweek Tweek is even more interesting as a human than he was as a demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the neediness. This is absolutely not a plug for comments because I'm honestly writing this for the enjoyment of it and wanting to tell a story. I just can't help but notice that despite this being -I feel anyway- one of my better works, it doesn't seem to be hitting the mark like some of my other stories.
> 
> Again, not a plug for reviews, but if anyone has views on what I can do to make it a better read for you, the reader, please do feel free to drop me a message on tumblr (same name). I'm happy with anon. I'm just interested to hear about what isn't connecting. I'm eyeball deep in this story, and much further on with what I've written so I don't have the most objective view!
> 
> In story matters; but of a transitionary chapter but I promise that there's a lot, lot more Tweek and Craig interaction from here on out!


	6. Chapter 5

A week passes before Tweek shows up again. Craig tries not to feel too pleased about it, especially since just the night before he’d been chastising himself for considering going to the shelter. He’s pretty certain that witnessing Tweek go through the trauma of demonic possession has pushed him into developing some sort of weird, protective feelings towards him. It’s irritating because Tweek is a fully-grown man and he doesn’t need a crappy priest fretting over him. Worse still, Craig doesn’t want Tweek to feel like he _owes_ Craig anything. He’d only been doing God’s work. Seeing Tweek freed from the demon’s grasp is reward enough.

Still, despite his concerns, Tweek’s reappearance in his church sets a happy, little feeling running through him. He delivers the rest of his sermon with more cadence and energy than usual. The attendees seem to enjoy it, smiling a little more than ordinary by the time Craig has finished. They tell him as much when they approach him, speaking their enjoyment with appreciative smiles.

Like last time, Tweek sits patiently as Craig takes confession from a couple of stragglers. Craig supposes that he doesn’t really have many other options on how to fill his time, but he still feels a little bad for making him wait.

Eventually Craig meanders over towards the pew that Tweek sits upon. It’s towards the back again, tucked away as if he’s shy, or embarrassed to be there.

“Good afternoon, Father,” Tweek says.

“Good afternoon, Tweek,” Craig responds. He takes a moment to look him over, noting with satisfaction that only some faint scars remain on Tweek’s face. The worst of the scratches, he guesses. Even they look like they’ll fade away entirely.  

Physically, Tweek looks fully recovered. His hair is a little long and a little unkempt but, if Craig hadn’t seen it himself, it’s virtually impossible to see the deathly ill man of three weeks ago in the man sitting here today.

Tweek shifts under the scrutiny. Craig jerks his eyes away, scolding himself for staring.

Tweek utters a little laugh that pulls his attention back. He smiles  bashfully and folds his hands in his lap, pulling his shoulders forward in a way that makes him look like a kid.

“I get nervous when I enter a church. I always think I’m gonna burst into flames,” Tweek admits.

Craig arches an eyebrow. “Because of the demon?”

Tweek shakes his head. “No. Well, maybe a little,” he says. He pauses to rub an itch on his nose away with the back of his finger and returns his hand to his lap. “More because I’m not Catholic. Well. Truthfully, I’m not even Christian,” he admits. Craig recognises the tone. He sounds a lot like a parishioner at confession.

“Atheist?” Craig asks, leaning back on the pew. It moans out a token groan that Craig ignores.

“No,” Tweek says in a softer voice. He starts tapping one of his feet. Craig guesses that it’s a nervous gesture. “Actually, I’m Buddhist. Have been since I was eight.”

Craig hums. “Buddhist? That surprises me.” And it does. Tweek doesn’t look like the average Buddhist. Craig would be less surprised if Tweek’s version of Buddhism was some sort of college dabble with a dope-based pseudo-Buddhism, but to be practicing from eight is a very different thing.

“Yeah,” Tweek nods. He sends Craig a quick smile. “When I was younger I suffered from a lot of behavioural issues- spasms, twitches, outbursts…” he pauses, shrugging his shoulders in a quick bob and looks away. “My parents said it was ADD. Turns out they were lowkey feeding me meth every day, but since my doctor and therapist didn’t pick up on it, they suggested meditation. It actually helped, kinda. From there I went on to read a lot about Buddhism and I liked what I read.”

Craig tries not to wince at Tweek’s admittance to being non-consensually drugged from a young age. He says it so casually that Craig guesses that it’s actually taken him a long time to work through and reconcile. Craig’s glad to hear no shame in his voice though. He spends every day of his work-life trying to unpick the damage that adults have done to children. He’s glad that Tweek seems to have largely worked through the fact that his parents force fed him meth. More importantly, he doesn’t seem to blame himself.

“I must confess that I don’t know too much about Buddhism,” Craig admits, focussing on that instead. “It’s an interesting religion though.”

“You think?” Tweek asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Yeah,” Craig says. “What? You thought I’d tell you it’s all heathen worship?”

Tweek shrugs, tilting his head to one side. “Kinda. I mean, you _do_ kinda represent another religion.”

“I’m not a sales guy,” Craig says, rolling his eyes. “I don't get commission. What good would it do me to force my views on someone?”

“What? You don’t get extra holy bonus points for converting people?” Tweek jokes.

Craig feels himself smirk. Few people joke with him these days. They see the dog collar and either tip-toe around him or shout abuse. It makes a nice change, and Craig sort of likes it.

“Nah. I’m not angling to be a Saint,” Craig replies. “Plain old priesthood suits me just fine.”

Tweek laughs at that. Craig just wears his smirk until they settle into silence again. The quiet lets him catch Tweek’s sigh. He responds by lifting an eyebrow in question.

“It’s nothing,” Tweek says. He breaks off, eyes looking around the church as if seeing it for the first time, but there’s something a little sad about his expression. “It just kinda sucks, I guess.”

“What sucks?” Craig asks, wondering if Tweek means the church.

“Finding out I’ve been wrong,” Tweek says in a smaller voice. He reaches out to run his fingertips against the back of the pew in front of him. “All this time I found peace in a religion that isn’t real.”

Craig frowns at that, watching the path Tweek’s fingers trace. “What makes you say that?”

Tweek pauses, turning to face him. “Why do you think?” He asks, although there’s no real challenge in his voice. “I was possessed by a demon from Hell and saved by two priests saying prayers to Jesus and the virgin and stuff.” He emphasises the word _stuff_ with a flamboyant hand gesture towards the altar. “All that means that the Catholic God must be real and I’ve been following the wrong thing for years.”

Tweek speaks with utter conviction, but his expression is still sad. He doesn’t look like a man who’s been awoken to the Christian faith; he looks like he’s been told that he has no choice in it.

“All religions essentially say the same thing- even Humanism,” Craig shrugs, taking pity on that wounded expression. “ _Be a good person, don’t hurt others, live a meaningful life._ Who am I to argue with that? Just because the rituals are different, so long as people try to be decent, I don’t think God- whichever form He takes- will be upset.”

“You really think that?” Tweek wonders aloud.

“I do,” Craig says. And he does. Has always thought it, even as he began his journey in the church. “Throughout the centuries different cultures have had different accounts of exorcism, and different rituals to expel the demon. Who’s to say that they don’t all work? I’m sure the Islamic approach is different to the Hindu approach, but they work because the people performing it believe it will,” he pauses to let that sink in. Tweek gifts him with rapt attention in response.

“I felt a power that wasn’t my own back then,” Craig continues. “It was holy and it nourished my faith. That doesn’t mean that it was the being exactly as described in here-” he emphasises the point by tapping the Bible in front of him. “It was beyond my comprehension and it was more… _more_ than I could ever describe. But what was important then, what saved _you_ is faith. For me, the institution of the Catholic Church is the closest that I’ve come to defining the relationship that I have with God as I see Him. But for you, what saved you may well of been God how you see Him.”

Tweek looks taken aback at that. It takes him a long time to respond, but Craig gives him his space, waiting silently and mulling over his own thoughts.

“Thank you,” Tweek eventually says. His voice is soft, but he sounds more at ease now. “Thank you so much, Father. I was kinda scared. I- none of this resonates with me, but I felt like I owed the Church- like I owed God- my faith. Then I felt bad because my heart wasn’t in it but I felt like I had to change.”

“You don’t,” Craig says firmly. “Unless you’re hurting yourself or others, you don’t need to change. I believe that God lives in the heart of every man and woman, and that relationship is something individual and intimate. I’m here to guide those whose faith follows Catholic tradition. It’s not my job to tell people what God is, or what form their faith should take.”

“What about atheists?” Tweek asks, curious now.

Craig hums at that, enjoying the theological debate. Too many of his peers hold the staunch view that the Catholic faith is the only correct route to God. It’s a little medieval for Craig’s tastes, and doesn’t hold up well in an internationalised, modern society.

“If I take what the Bible tells me and what I observe, God intended for humans to have free will. He wants people to question things. Curiosity is what makes us so adaptable and so different from other creatures. I think questioning God is natural too. And God is supposed to be loving, not a dictator who demands fealty, so I think He accepts people questioning things too,” Craig explains.

“So you don’t think they’re doomed to eternal damnation?” Tweek asks, openly interested.

“No, I don’t. I mean, I’ll eat my words when I die and find out I was wrong but from what I’ve seen, and what I’ve read, and what I’ve _felt_ , God is benevolent. I think He will forgive people for being cynical. So much can be explained these days by science, after all. It’s taken a lot of the mysticism away.”

“Huh,” Tweek says, sitting back. Craig suspects he didn’t come here for a philosophical discussion, but he doesn’t seem to be upset by it. Instead he sits, face scrunched cutely in thought.

After a while he visibly shrugs and turns a smile towards Craig. “It’s pretty deep stuff, Father. I’m not sure I entirely follow but I definitely feel better, thank you.”

“That’s alright. I’d hate to think you were feeling forced into the faith,” Craig says. “If there’s one thing I feel pretty strongly about it’s that people should be free to shape their own relationship with God.”

Tweek nods in response. With Tweek feeling reassured, Craig feels like the conversation is reaching its natural end. He stretches his leg out and then rises to his feet, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“Since you wasted money on bus fair again, and listened to my theological lecture, I may as well treat you to a coffee,” he says.

The smile that Tweek gifts him with in response is blinding.

**

 

Just as they did a week ago, Craig and Tweek kick off their shoes and head into the sitting room of the homey rectory.

“Make yourself at home,” Craig says. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay,” Tweek calls out in response.

Craig mounts the stairs in twos, taking his first right and stepping into his cramped bedroom. Shutting the door behind him, he makes quick work of shedding his cassock, fingers flying down the buttons with practiced ease. He pulls his collar free and slips out of the robe, hanging it neatly on a waiting hanger.

He switches his pants for black jeans and pulls on a t-shirt. He pauses to briefly indulge in the simple pleasure of being able to run his hand through the short hairs at the back of his neck. He briefly considers pulling a sweater on, but figures that his usual jacket will be warm enough. Satisfied, he leaves the room.

When he returns to the sitting room, he’s surprised to find that Tweek isn’t where he left him. His shoes still lay abandoned by the door, so he can’t be far away, but in a dwelling of this size, there’s not too many places that he could have gone.

“Tweek?” Craig calls out.

“In here!” Tweek’s voice responds.

Craig follows the sound of it and halts in his tracks when he spies Tweek sitting on his knees in the little sunroom that Craig likes to use as a bit of a library.

Stripe number Nine sits calmly in Tweek’s lap, munching happily on the piece of carrot that’s being offered to him. When Tweek looks up, he gifts Craig with a sunny smile.

“Why didn’t you say you had guinea pigs?” Tweek asks in an excited voice.

Craig stares at him, stunned and unsure of what he should say. “I guess the topic never came up?” He says lamely.

Tweek misreads his surprise, suddenly looking very bashful. “I should have asked if I could get them out first, sorry. I hope I didn’t do any harm. I was just looking around the living room and then I heard them squeaking and I had to take a look and -”

“Wheeking,” Craig interrupts.

Tweek blinks in response. “Excuse me?” He asks.

“Wheeking,” Craig says again, moving to crouch beside where Tweek is sitting. “Was it like a high pitched whistle?” Tweek nods dumbly in response. Craig nods. “Yeah, that’s wheeking. It means they’re excited.”

“Excited?” Tweek asks, eyes wide in wonder.

“Yep,” Craig says, drawling the e and popping the p. “They’re greedy piggies. They get excited when they hear footsteps because they think it means treats,” he stops to gesture at the barely-there remains of carrot Tweek is holding. “And you’ve proven them right.”

“Oh,” Tweek says. “Oh um… I’m sorry if they weren’t supposed to get any treats. In fact, I’m really sorry period. I should have asked before I got them out.” With that, Tweek hangs his head, looking a little ashamed.

Craig takes the moment to regard him. Four weeks ago, Tweek was on record eating live rats and ripping the throat of a cat open with his own teeth. Watching the true man as he fusses two, fat guinea pigs, it’s almost impossible to believe. Tweek -the real Tweek- is a gentle soul. Despite everything, horror and all, Craig is glad that he got to witness Tweek at his worst. It gives him a fresh appreciation for the man he really is.

“Don’t worry about it,” Craig says before Tweek grows too uncomfortable. “If they didn’t want to be picked up, you’d know about it.”

“Okay,” Tweek nods, looking relieved. Gently, he picks up Sirius and sets him back in the cage. He follows with Stripe and closes the cage door.

Craig checks their water and hay, satisfied that they’re well-attended to. Tweek watches in open fascination. Craig doesn’t have the heart to tell him its basic common sense.

Tweek sits up straighter, uttering a surprised “Oh!”

At the tone, Craig frowns and glances around. “What?”

“You look _normal!_ ” Tweek says with something close to awe.

“Yeah,” Craig says dryly. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Ack!” Tweek shouts so noisily, Sirius growls in response. “I’m sorry! I’m such an idiot! I didn’t mean to offend you-”

“Chill,” Craig interrupts him mid-rant. “I’m not mad.” He pauses to wince at the slight ringing in his ears. “Has anyone ever told you apologise too much?” _Or that you can be really loud._

Tweek blushes at that and laughs weakly. “That’s the thing about anxiety,” he says. “You kinda get used to assuming everything is your fault.”

“I appreciate that,” Craig says. “But I get apologies all day, every day at work. I’m off-duty now, so just assume that I don’t think you’re at fault and I don’t need apologising to.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Tweek says.

Craig softens a bit. He’d forgot that Tweek was bonafide. Being possessed probably hadn’t helped much, but Craig doesn’t want to ask if Tweek has been able to access his meds. It’s far too personal, and Craig can guess not if his parents have cut him off. It gives him an even stronger admiration for how well Tweek seems to be coping.

“Okay, you don’t know me too well, so I get that,” Craig says. “I don’t know if it helps, but I generally go with the flow. I’m hard to offend, and I might not seem like it, but I respect that everyone’s just trying their best to get by. I’m a priest, so I don’t judge either because it’s not my place.”

“You seriously don’t judge anyone?” Tweek asks, disbelieving.

Craig snorts softly. “Okay, I admit that was hard habit to break out of, but it’s God’s job. Even if someone is saying something really, really factually inaccurate.” Tweek arches an eyebrow at that, but before he can ask, Craig is lifting back to his feet. “C’mon, anyway. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Tweek frowns, confused. “Are we going somewhere?”

Craig rolls his eyes. “Obviously. We’re going to Harbucks. No matter how nice you were about my coffee, it tastes like ass. The least I can do to pay you back is treat you to the real deal.”

 

**

 

By Tweek’s third visit to the church, Harbucks Monday becomes a thing.

They switch to Monday at Craig’s request. Tweek had been flustered initially, making excuses as to why he doesn’t want to be a burden, but Craig had simply shrugged and told him that his door was open either way. That that was sort of the _thing_ with churches.

When Sunday had rolled around and Tweek had been absent for the first time in three weeks, Craig had begun to worry that he’d overstepped the mark. He’d spent the evening feeling out of sorts, annoyed with himself for feeling like he’d run Tweek off, and simultaneously berating himself for assuming that Tweek owed him his company somehow. He’d eventually settled for Netflix, evening prayer and a bad night’s sleep.

The Monday that follows sees Craig back in the church for his usual 6AM start, tidying and reading from the bible around a quick cup of coffee. Some of his congregation wander in around half seven and he joins them in prayer and allows himself to be drawn into conversation until he notes the time and has to make a dash for his car.

By some miracle (God was on his side with the green lights) Craig manages to get to the local hospice early. He spends around three hours there. It’s one of his sadder duties, but probably one that he values the most. Dying people are honestly some of the most inspirational he’s met. Whilst the likes of Mrs. Haggarty bemoaning her wayward Granddaughter try his patience, he’s never begrudged the time he’s spent with the terminally ill. Their time is more precious than his, and their strength -quite honestly- blows his mind, and he often feels all the richer, if emotionally drained, for it.

He gets back to the church around ten past eleven and is surprised to find Tweek sitting on one of the pews. He jumps when Craig enters, tossing a startled look over his shoulder and stiffening.

“Oh, Father!” Tweek says. “I’m sorry to come by unannounced.”

Craig reaches his pew and stands by his side. He lets his eyes skirt over Tweek, surprised, but not displeased, to see him there. “You’re not limited to entering at certain times, Tweek. It’s not a shop.”

“No I know, sorry, I-”

“Stop being sorry,” Craig interrupts him, although he feels a smile quirk his lips up at the corners. “I’m surprised to see you here today though.”

“Oh?” Tweek looks a little bit bewildered at that. “You said Monday was better for you.”

Craig’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. It had only been a passing comment last week, but Tweek had really latched onto it. But then, he considers, Tweek _does_ have anxiety disorder. He probably catches onto and obsesses over detail like that quickly.

Either way, Craig can’t help but feel pleased to see him. He still feels a little like Tweek is his charge after seeing him through his exorcism. It’s a bit self-indulgent, but Craig kind of likes seeing his progress. He’s pretty sure that God wouldn't have wanted him to exorcise a demon out of Tweek, only to chuck him out, unsupported, into the harshness of the real world after.

“It _is_ better for me, but I still have work to do,” Craig smirks. “My hours aren’t limited to Sundays and festivals, you know?” Tweek flushes and lowers his head at that, looking embarrassed. “I’m _joking_ ,” Craig says. He’s not entirely, but he doesn’t want to cause Tweek an aneurysm. “I don’t mind you visiting, I just don’t want you waiting around for ages because I’m out. Were you waiting long today?”

“No! Not too long,” Tweek replies, shaking his head.

Craig rolls his eyes. “You shouldn’t lie to a priest, you know.”

Tweek’s lip pops out in a tiny pout. It looks far too adorable for an adult man and Craig is momentarily tempted to poke his lip back into place. “Okay,” He relents. “I waited a little while.”

Craig nods. “Better.” He moves to sit beside Tweek, and rolls his shoulders. “I visit the local hospice every Monday morning,” he explains, not entirely sure why he feels it important to share his schedule with Tweek.

“Oh,” Tweek says, voice growing soft. “How sad…”

Craig looks over towards him and shrugs one shoulder. “It can be, but I also love going.”

“You love going?” Tweek asks, perplexed and a little weirded out. Craig gets why. He must sound like some sort of masochist or, worse still, a weirdo for saying that he enjoys going.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says, honest. “But dying people are more alive than most healthy people are. Many are only days, even hours from death, but most of them have made their peace with it. Yeah, it’s sad, but it’s also kind of serene. Some of the most insightful and beautiful things I’ve ever heard have come from people who are about to slip away. It’s one of the most worthwhile things that I do.”

When he looks back towards Tweek, he’s surprised to find his eyes wet with tears. He cocks an eyebrow at it and Tweek laughs a little laugh and hurriedly scrubs at one eye with the back of his wrist.

“Shit, man. That was heavy,” he says with a small smile.

“It was a little, huh?” Craig says. “So I’m gonna change subject to something a little less morbid: what’s in the box?”

He nods towards where Tweek has been clutching a small, white, cardboard box to his lap. It looks a little worse for wear, misshapen by Tweek’s hands worrying at it. Craig had noticed it upon sitting down, but hadn’t thought to ask about it until their conversation had veered a little too much into the deep and meaningful.

“Oh!” Tweek jolts slightly, as if only just remembering himself. “It’s a cupcake!” He announces, hurriedly flipping the lid. Leaning over Craig peers inside. His eyes land on a cupcake with a lopsided, cream-coloured swirl.

When he looks back up at Tweek, Tweek colours slightly and looks down at it too. “I know it’s not much to look at, but I promise it tastes okay!”

“I feel like I’m missing something here,” Craig says.

“Oh! Um,” Tweek fidgets with the box, looking embarrassed. “Remember I said that I like to bake and that I’ve been helping out at the shelter?” He pauses, waiting for Craig to nod before he continues. “Well you’ve treated me to coffee twice now and I wanted to return the favour so… I made you a cupcake.”

Craig blinks, genuinely surprised. It’s not unusual for the locals to bake him things. Several of the older ladies seem to believe that without their constant bombardment of pies, Craig would starve. But this is definitely the first time a guy has baked him a cupcake.

Tweek fidgets again. It’s more like a full-body twitch running through him, almost like he’s sat on a live electric current or something. “You hate cupcakes, don’t you?” He asks, looking crestfallen.

“What?” Craig says, snapped from his thoughts. “No! No I don’t hate cupcakes.”

“Now who’s lying?” Tweek says, although he’s sporting a tiny smile.

That gives Craig pause. He sighs and tosses Tweek a small smile. “Okay. I don’t _hate_ cupcakes, but I’m not a huge fan of sugary things, if I’m honest.”

“Gah!” Tweek splutters. “Damn it! Okay! Next time I’ll bake you something you like!”

“Tweek, you don’t have to bake me anything at all,” Craig says, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“I know, but I want to!” Tweek insists. “Please!”

Craig regards him silently for a moment before sighing and turning to face front, gazing at the altar. “Croissants,” He says quietly.

“Huh?” Tweek says, jolting in his seat.

“I like croissants,” Craig says, turning back to face Tweek. “If you’ve gotta bake me _something,_  I like croissants. If it’s not too much trouble. Otherwise I’ll have anything that isn’t too sweet.”

Tweek beams at him in response. “Croissants it is!”

“Great. Now that that major dilemma is settled, let’s get that coffee,” Craig says, rising to his feet.

Tweek jumps up after him and trots along close behind as Craig makes his way out and towards his car. They climb in, one after the other, and lapse into comfortable silence as Craig flicks the car into drive and pulls away.

It doesn’t take them long to reach Harbucks. The could’ve walked, really, but Craig has afternoon duties and he’d rather see Tweek safely back at the shelter first, rather than see him off on the bus.

They park up and wander in. A couple of the regulars recognise Craig from mass and send a respectful nod his way. The rest glance at him, gazes lingering on his dog collar before slipping away back to their phones, laptops and books.

“What do you want?” Craig asks. “Double espresso again?”

Tweek hums and nods. “Yes please, Father.”

“Okay, go and grab a seat,” Craig instructs before walking up to the counter and ordering a double espresso and a flat white. The cakes catch his attention and, without really thinking about it, he orders a slice of the cappuccino sponge cake, watching mutely as the barista plates up a big wedge of it. He pays when the barista passes it to him and heads towards the table that Tweek has chosen, noting that it’s by the window.

He sets the plate down with a clink and slides into the seat opposite. Tweek slides his gaze from the window to Craig, smiling when he sees him. His smile is wiped away by surprise when he looks down and spots the cake.

Craig shrugs. “I should’ve asked, sorry,” he says. “You seem to really love coffee so I figured you’d like that. Say if you don’t want it though.”

“What?” Tweek gasps. “Oh my god no! I love it! I just- are you sure? You’re already treating me to coffee and I was supposed to repay you with the cupcake and you didn’t like that and now-”

“Dude,” Craig breaks in. “Breathe. Breathe and chill. It’s fine, okay?” He says the last in a softer voice. In truth, he probably shouldn’t have bought the cake for him. It had been pretty presumptuous for a whim, but upon seeing how happy Tweek looks, Craig finds that he doesn’t regret it. It’s probably been too long since the poor guy had a proper treat. He can’t imagine that the food at the shelter and the local food banks is very exciting. Nutritious, sure, but probably not very exciting.

They sit in silence as Tweek tucks into his wedge of cake. He eats with so much gusto that Craig can’t help but smile. He imagines at some point that Tweek was either one of those kids who had ridiculously fast metabolism and looked skinny as a rake all the time, or carried a bit of weight around the middle in a muffin top. He doesn’t ask. It’s probably not very appropriate. Especially since Tweek is only just starting to look robust again after the trauma of the last few months.

After their coffees come and Tweek’s plate lies picked clean, Tweek shifts and returns his gaze out of the window. His earlier cake-induced pleasure has faded, face grown somber instead.

“I was thinking about what you said earlier. About talking to dying people,” Tweek says slowly. He pulls his shoulders forward and for a moment he looks smaller. More childlike. The topic surprises Craig, but he stays silent, letting Tweek speak. “It made me realise that I’ve never had any real impact on someone else’s life like that,” he says, looking a little sad.

“I doubt that’s true,” Craig says, fixing him with a level stare as he sips his coffee. He can see Tweek looking at him in the reflection out of the corner of his eye. “You were a barista, right?”

That catches Tweek’s attention. “Yeah?” He asks, turning back to face Craig diredtely.

“I think some of the best shrinks are bartenders, baristas and priests,” Craig says. “Sometimes all people need is someone to talk to. Someone who’ll shut the fuck up and just listen. Some people have a degree in it and get paid hundreds of dollars an hour.” He breaks off to shrug. “And of course they have the clinical training and they understand the psychology behind why. Sometimes that’s what people need. But for a lot of people… they just want someone to listen. They don’t want to hear that everything’s going to be okay in the end. They don’t want solutions. They just want someone to hear them, and know that they’re doing the best they can.”

Tweek stares back at Craig, looking a little awed. After a moment he drops his gaze and pushes his wooden stirrer around with his fingertip. “I’ve honestly never thought of it that way before.”

Craig shrugs. “Everyone has an impact on someone else’s life, Tweek. But for some of us, we’re blessed enough to touch the lives of many. Maybe some guy you listened to once was on the verge of going home and killing himself that night. Maybe talking to you made him reconsider. Maybe some girl you once listened to sob over a cappuccino went on to bigger and better things because she managed to draw a line under it all that night. Maybe they’ve forgot they ever even met you. You’ll never know what impact you’ve had, but you will have had some. I’m certain of it.”

When Tweek speaks its soft. Thoughtful. “I remember once, about three years ago this girl turned up just before close. She’d been crying really hard and she just sat in a booth and stared at the table. I took her a cup of coffee over and asked if she needed me to call anyone, but she just shook her head. I didn’t have the heart to kick her out. She ended up staying for two hours past close. It was crazy awkward. I was cleaning around her and I didn’t know what to say so I just put the radio on. I never saw her again but she sent me a thank you card a couple of weeks later.”

“See?” Craig says, spreading his hands. “If that isn’t having an impact, what is?”

Tweek breaks into a stunning smile. Craig is momentarily taken aback by it, surprised by just how overwhelmingly happy it seems to have made Tweek. His surprise turns to alarm when he sees Tweek’s eyes grow wet with tears.

“Sorry,” Tweek says in a choked voice, wiping his eyes. “Goddamn it, I’m not normally such an emotional wreck, I swear,” Tweek insists. His body clearly has other thoughts though, several tears slipping through the barrier that Tweek is clearly desperate to hold in place.

“C’mon,” Craig says, soft. “It’s not weak to cry sometimes.”

“I know,” Tweek says. “I _know_ , but I’m not some crybaby I just-” he pauses sniffle a snotty-sounding nose. “After everything that’s happened, I’ve been trying to figure out why I was worth saving. I’ve never been anyone special. I’ve never achieved much,” his voice catches again. “But for some reason I was saved. I’ve been trying to tell myself that I’m lucky to be here. That it’s okay that I’m alone now and that I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve been clinging onto hope that there’s something I can do to prove I was worth saving but… what you just said… it’s the first time anyone’s ever told me I can do something meaningful.”

“Hey,” Craig says, voice still soft. He wants to reach out and touch Tweek’s arm, but isn’t sure if it comes across as too forward. Instead, he chooses his words carefully, all too aware of how vulnerable this man really is. “Every soul is worth saving, Tweek. There is nothing about yours that makes it worth any less than anyone else’s.”

Tweek nods in response, wiping tears away from his cheeks with his sleeve. He looks tired. Tired, and small, and carrying a weight that’s dogged him for much, much longer than the last couple of months.

“Don’t go writing your life off either,” Craig continues. “You’re still young. What are you? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one,” Tweek says.

“Thirty-one. And if you dare say it’s not, I’ll kick your ass because _I’m_ almost thirty-two,” Craig says. He smiles a bit when Tweek gives him a watery laugh. “My point is, you’ve got plenty of life left, God willing. There’s a lot you can do in that time and, although I don’t know you well, I think you’re capable of much more than you think you are.”

Tweek stares at him, openly awed. His mouth hangs open for a moment before it slowly shuts with a soft _pop_. Then he smiles again. It’s only a small smile, but it’s so warm that for a moment Craig thinks he’s lighting up the entire room.

“C’mon,” Craig jokes, shifting uncomfortably. “You gonna stop crying now? You’re going to give me a bad reputation you know? People can be weird about the uniform, especially if I’m seen making people cry.”

Tweek laughs again at that, sounding stronger than the last time. “You prefer to make people cry in the privacy of the church, Father Tucker?”

“Tch,” Craig huffs. “You cheeky fucker.”

“You are _such_ a weird priest,” Tweek says between rolling laugher. “I’m sure you’re not meant to say _fuck_.”

“There’s a lot I’m not meant to do,” Craig says dryly, although his lips quirk into a smile.

“Like smoke?” Tweek teases.

“Y’know, that one’s more society and medical experts than it is God,” Craig says. “Speaking of, I’m due a cigarette. Come on. I’ll drop you off at the shelter.”

Tweek nods and pulls his coat on. “Thank you! You really don’t have to though.”

“I’m not pulling your ass back from the brink of Hell for you to sit on a pile of shit bus,” Craig snorts, sliding out of his seat and back into his feet.

Craig takes the lead, slipping a cigarette into his mouth and waiting outside as Tweek returns their tray, laden with empty cups and plate. He affords Tweek the luxury of getting out of the cold and into his car as he finishes his smoke, sliding beside him in the moment he stubs it out on his wing mirror.

It only takes seven minutes to reach the shelter. Craig pulls up outside with a now practiced familiarity and waits for Tweek to disembark.

Before leaving, Tweek hesitates, fingering the handle of the door.

Craig fixes him with a level expression, patiently waiting for him to speak.

“I never asked if me coming by was okay,” Tweek says so quietly that Craig has to strain to listen to him over the soft sounds of the radio.

“Like I said before, it’s a church. You don’t really need an invite.”

“No I know. And I’m grateful, I really am,” Tweek glances at him. Looks away again. “But I only ever meant to come by and say thank you for saving my life. I didn’t mean to keep coming back. I just-” he cuts himself off. Takes a breath. Flushes pink. “I feel very alone and I could really use a friend. I’ve kind of thrust that upon you, but I know you’re a priest and it’s your job to be nice, so I know I’m taking advantage-”

“My job,” Craig interrupts. “Is to provide guidance to those who follow the Catholic faith.”

Tweek looks at him properly then, unsure of what to make of that.

Craig rolls his eyes and taps the clock on his dashboard. “I got a busy week this week. Two weddings and a funeral. I’ll be looking forward to my hard-earned croissant next Monday.”

It takes Tweek a moment to understand. When he does, his entire posture shifts and his face smooths out into a small smile.

“Well then,” Tweek replies. “I’d best get practicing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slow chapter, sorry, but I'm world-building. World-building, I swear it! Craig is a man of strong faith. It'll take more than a pastry to tempt him...  
> \--
> 
> Sorry for the delay- mega busy week at work with an all-week training course and exam. Yuck.
> 
> Thank you so much for the feedback. It really, really helped. I appreciate the support. I'm eating into my contingency this week since I've only managed to wrote around 1,200 words this week in the non-gaps in-between study and work! :^)


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referenced Style. Skip first bit if it grinds your gears. Bit of a subplot though.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned-”

Craig holds back a sigh at the familiar voice. Confession is never a fun task, but Stan Marsh manages to make it that extra bit more tedious.

“-it’s been… three weeks, I think.”

It has. Craig can’t say that he’s missed the self-pity.

“I um… I sinned again, Father. With Ky- with my friend. Who is a man-” here we go. The usual. “I lay with another man, Father. Behind my wife’s back. It wasn’t um. Penetrative this time so I was wondering if it counted? I mean does it still count as sodomy?”

There’s a number of reasons why Craig hates listening to Stan Marsh’s confessions. The first is that the guy is hopelessly in love with his friend, Kyle Something- Craig doesn’t know, he’s not a parishioner. Either way it makes his every confession thoroughly depressing. He’s clearly unhappy and there’s very little Craig can do to fix it if Stan’s faith isn’t enough to get him through.

The second is that Stan is one of those born-agains. From what Craig has managed to piece together, Stan once had a pretty liberal-bordering-on-agnostic relationship with God. At some point though, he’d managed to fall into a bottle of cheap whisky. He hadn’t been able to climb out of it again until the good ol’ AA had pulled him out. Not that Craig has any issue with them. They do good work and they help people to reconnect with God. Some guys seem to take it too far though, using God to fill the void which they previously filled with booze, or drugs, or casual sex, or all of the above. It might be an odd thought for a priest since it’s a little like unintentional recruitment to the church, but Craig is a firm believer that everyone’s relationship with God should be personal and it should be sincere. It shouldn’t make a man drown in hatred for himself and hatred for others.

The third and final reason why Craig hates taking confession from Stan Marsh is probably the most important. It’s why he dreads seeing him enter the church and feels unhappy when he steps into the booth. And it’s simply because it’s one of those few times where Craig the man, and Father Tucker the priest aren’t fully aligned. And he truly, deeply hates it.

“It counts,” Craig sighs. “It still counts as laying with another man.”

“Oh,” Stan says. That simple sound carries so much sadness to it that it makes Craig squeeze his eyes shut. Briefly he fantasises about being a priest in a Marvel series, coaching a superhero like Matt Murdoch and telling him to kick ass for God.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s still staring at the wall, and Stan is still silent.

“You’ve confessed before God, I believe He forgives you. I absolve you of your sin,” Craig says. He wishes that he could invite the guy for coffee and point him towards someone who can help him on the non-spiritual level with his issues. He’s clearly got some deep scars that won’t heal over. Notwithstanding that he’s sexually and romantically attracted to a male friend, he’s also clearly unable to commit to his wife. The only thing that seems to make him happy is his decision to leave his decent-paying job as an accountant to pursue a career in animal rescue.

“Thank you, Father,” Stan says, sounding tired. “What’s my penance?”

“Say five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers,” Craig says. They should help focus Stan’s mind. Give him enough time to calm and soak in the peace of the church. Hopefully it will soothe his soul a little.

When he steps out of the booth, Stan catches his eye and looks away with a light blush. He’s always embarrassed after, though Craig isn’t sure why. He doesn’t judge and he certainly wouldn’t tell another living soul.

“Father,” Stan says, his tone imploring. “I know I’ve asked before but do you _really_ have no contacts who could help me with my… my problem?”

Craig sighs. “Mr. Marsh, you know I don’t advocate those approaches. I believe that you can find your peace with God through prayer and reflection. I don’t think that He values shortcuts, or quick wins, and I certainly don’t think that He supports the work of priests who advocate conversation therapy.”

“But I’ve thought about it and-”

“I’m sure you have,” Craig interrupts. He knows more than enough about the subject to have an impassioned stance on the subject. “But let’s look at the facts. One, you’re not _gay_ . You’re romantically and physically attracted to women, but you have strong feelings for your friend. It’s complicated, but it doesn’t make you _gay._ Two, God made us how we are. He likes to test us, so I think it’s our duty to choose not to act on those impulses, rather than flat out reject the way God made us. That goes just as much for adultery too.”

Stan blushes and looks at the floor, suitably ashamed.

“I guess you’re right,” Stan sighs.

Craig nods in response. “Pray. Try to find your own answer.”

With that, Craig leaves Stan to it, sweeping down the aisle to attend to his duties. Stan hangs around a little longer to do his penance before eventually leaving Craig alone in the church.

He pauses in his sweeping, looking up and taking note of the empty church. Slowly he puts the broom down, propping it against the stone wall and stepping forward between the pews. Reaching out, Craig strokes his fingertips reverently against the polished cherry wood of a pew.

He takes a self-indulgent moment to close his eyes, opening his senses. He doesn’t feel as close to God as he did back in that prison cell, but it’s as close as he can get. The smell of the incense, the feel of the pew, the soft candle light, the sacred silence… even the memory of the taste of communion.

To Craig there’s nothing lonely about an empty church. To Craig, an empty church is the most beautiful sight he is fortunate enough to be graced by.

He _loves_ this place. He truly does. It saved his life and gave him strength when he had none.

But sometimes… sometimes it hurts too. Hurts so much he can barely breathe. Hurts so much that Craig Tucker the man cries out and thrashes underneath the perfect, serene control that Father Tucker the priest has over him.

 _Sacrifices have to be made sometimes_ , Father Tucker drones, the same old story slipping from his tongue.

Craig Tucker only curses bitterly and sinks, curling up into a tight ball, pulling himself in tighter and tighter still until he vanishes from sight and mind. Father Tucker knows he’ll be back though. He never truly goes away. He’ll never stop questioning whether they’ll ever truly be happy with the cost of their sacrifice.

To the observer, Father Craig Tucker stands, quiet and collected, and as venerable as the church around him.

He calmly walks across to the lectern and begins reading from the Bible. He stays that way until nightfall makes it too hard to see.

 

**

 

As promised, Tweek turns up the following Monday with a cheery smile and a cellophane-wrapped croissant.

Craig’s amusement is short-lived however, when he notes the yellowing bruise on Tweek’s cheekbone.

“What happened?” Craig says, forgoing a hello and sitting beside Tweek. He fixes a pointed look at the mark, scowling in concern.

“Oh,” Tweek says, surprised. He reaches up to touch his cheek as if he’d forgot all about it. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he says.

Craig studies it quietly, mouth turned down at the corners. “It’s not nothing. And if you say you fell-”

“Okay!” Tweek relents, raising his hands. “Okay, it was a someone and not a some _thing_ , but he was really drunk and he didn’t mean it.”

Craig feels a cold spike of alarm deep in his stomach. His heart thuds in a single, painful squeeze. “He?” He hisses. “Who’s _he_?”

“Just one of the guys I’m sharing a dorm with!” Tweek all but squeaks. “Jesus, man, calm down. I’m not whoring myself out or something.”

Craig swallows at that, looking away and frowning.

“Oh my God!” Tweek shrieks. “Did you think I was selling sex?” Craig winces, feeling shame blossom in his chest. To his surprise though, Tweek laughs. “Oh my god. Should I feel flattered you think someone would pay?”

“Shut up,” Craig groans, feeling awkwardly red-cheeked.

Tweek laughs again. “Okay, I’m sorry,” he smiles. “I promise I’m not turning tricks. I spend my days baking and doing laundry and stuff for the shelter. Sometimes I talk to this pro-bono lawyer Father Maxi put me in touch with. It’s all pretty tame.”

“Alright,” Craig huffs. “I feel like an ass, you win.”

“Why?” Tweek grins. “It’s weirdly flattering.” At Craig’s sharp look, Tweek lifts his hands in surrender and fights the grin twitching at his lips. “Okay, I’ll stop. It really was a guy I room with. He’s in a bad place and was really wasted. His fists ended up flying around and he caught me. It wasn’t even intentional and I’d pretty much forgot about it.”

“Did he at least get a warning?” Craig asks, still unhappy.

“Naw,” Tweek shrugs. “He’d only end up losing his place and that’d make things worse for him.”

“If you insist,” Craig says dubiously. He glances down at the small package in Tweek’s lap again. “Could that possibly be a croissant?”

Tweek laughs. “Actually, it’s two. I was wondering if I could use it to beg a really big favour?”

“Oh I see,” Craig rolls his eyes. “You ply me with pastries and then play on my sense of duty.”

“Yep! Is it it working?”

Craig smiles at that. “Obviously. Why do you think there’s so many fat priests?”

“Huh, that’s pretty smart,” Tweek says.

“Trust me, I learnt very early on not to trust sweet, old ladies with pie,” Craig smirks. “So anyway, this favour?”

“Oh! Um well I was wondering if I could bum a lift to Harbucks?” Tweek asks, clapping his hands together in a crude prayer-like gesture.

Craig blinks. “I thought we were already going there? Did you want cake again or something?”

Tweek shakes his head. “No! Nothing like that. I just didn’t want to assume we’d go again.”

“Why would it suddenly change?” Craig says, pulling a face. He relaxes a bit when he realises that Tweek doesn’t know him all that well, despite it feeling oddly like he’s known Tweek for a lot longer. Tweek doesn’t know yet just how much Craig likes routine. Doesn’t know that Craig will probably go to Harbucks every Monday now until a new routine comes along.

“I don’t know,” Tweek shrugs, shooting Craig a helpless look. “I’d hate to impose by assuming.” Despite his words, Craig reads the deeper message behind them. ‘ _I won’t let myself trust people again,_ ’ is what he’s really saying.

Craig doesn’t push, brushing his cassock down instead. “I’m happy to go to Harbucks, but you didn’t answer my question- not that you’re obligated to.” He doesn’t want to admit to being interested, but being a priest has bred a certain nosiness in him.

“Oh!” Tweek jolts in his seat, looking like he’s just been on the receiving end of a static shock. “Well I noticed last week that they’re after staff. I was thinking that with my past experience, I could maybe apply?” He speaks as if it’s a question. Craig doesn’t get why it feels like Tweek is asking for his approval. Craig’s advice is usually on the spiritual level, but from a finance and wellbeing perspective, it seems like a sensible option.

“Makes sense, I suppose. Do you know how to do that foamy art stuff?” Craig asks.

Tweek scoffs in response. “That stuff is for amateurs!” He says, mouth quirking into a smirk. Craig blinks, momentarily taken aback. It’s the first time he’s seen Tweek look _confident._ Usually he looks as if he’s unconsciously trying to make himself invisible. Seeing him exude self-assurance makes him light up somehow. Craig can’t help but think that it suits him.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Craig replies. He wipes his hands on his knees and lifts to his feet. “Let’s go straight there. I’ve got a wedding rehearsal this evening so there’s no point in me changing.”

Tweek nods and hops to his feet, following as Craig pops into his office to collect his wallet and keys.

“Cool office,” Tweek says, eyes surveying the room.

Craig pauses to glance around himself. The office, like the rectory, has remained largely free of Craig’s interference. His additions are few: a phone charger, a mug, a cactus his old college friend Token had given him, an Alexa Dot, and a box of tissues for weepy parishioners.

Unlike the rectory though, the office has aged well. It’s retained its ‘period features’ (Craig had learnt the term on an episode of _White People Renovating Houses_ ), and was blissfully untouched by the assault of the browns and oranges of the 70s.

“Better than the rectory,” Craig agrees.

Tweek laughs. “I know it would be the polite thing to disagree…” He trails off, his laugh dipping into a softer smile. “But it feels nice in here, you know? It feels warm.”

“Well it’s got an interesting heating-”

“Not _that_ ,” Tweek interrupts, amused again. “God for a priest you’re surprisingly dense,” he teases before sobering again. “I mean it gives me a warm feeling. It feels safe and cozy. Like nothing bad can happen in here.”

Craig takes a moment to search the room again. He’s scowling over the ‘dense’ comment but, he relents, Tweek isn’t wrong. The room provides an intimacy that the nave cannot. In that intimacy, Craig can almost taste the love and warmth that caught Tweek’s attention.

“I get your point,” Craig says, feeling a little ashamed that another man -a non-Christian at that- is the one to draw his attention to it.

Tweek seems not to notice Craig’s shame, attention turned instead to the ornate books that sit piled upon an equally ornate side table. He runs his fingers over the spines with so much reverence that Craig can’t help smiling slightly again.

“Do you talk to people in here too?” Tweek asks.

“Yup,” Craig nods, leaning against his polished desk. “Usually about the sacraments- uh, that’s stuff like baptism, first holy communion, marriage. Marriage and funerals tend to take the most time, as you’d expect.”

“Marriage and funerals, huh?” Tweek says, thoughtful. “I guess you really do get to see people at their most hopeful and people at their most sad, huh?”

“When you put it that way, I guess you’re right,” Craig muses, reflecting on his job once more. It’s true, really. From the bright-eyed, very much in love young couples through to the broken, tired mourners, Craig gets to experience humanity and it’s highest and lowest.

“Come on anyway,” Craig says, shaking himself from his thoughts. “Let’s go get you this job.”

Tweek blushes, fiddling with his shirt in a way that Craig is starting to recognise as nerves. “We’ll see.”

“Oh no,” Craig says. “Anyone who’s grown up in a coffee house like you should walk into it. Especially with a priest as a reference.”

Tweek brightens again at that. “Okay. Let’s go!”

 

**

 

Craig insists on doing the application over coffee and cake. He grabs the usual at the counter along with another slice of the coffee cake Tweek enjoyed so much last week.

When he brings their order over Tweek is already scanning over the application form, head resting on his fists and lip caught between his teeth as he concentrates.

Craig watches him silently as he reads, sipping his coffee. He’s mildly alarmed when Tweek’s face crumples and he pushes the form away from himself.

“Never mind,” he mutters, bringing a thumb to his mouth to chew at the nail. He looks close to tears, Craig realises suddenly.

Thoroughly perplexed, Craig picks the form up and scans through it. When he sees nothing out of the ordinary, he reads it again. “Looks easy enough,” he frowns. “What’s the issue?”

Tweek shrugs, visibly trying to hold back tears. “It’s nothing,” he mutters.

“That’s bullshit,” Craig shoots back. “You’ve got experience, you’ve got a reference. What’s the issue?”

Tweek shakes his head. “The issue is that I can’t apply!” He looks away, wearing twin masks of disappointment and shame. “It says I need a permanent address and a contact number. Even if I put the shelter down as a permanent address -which it isn’t- how’s it gonna look? No one in their right mind is gonna hire some homeless guy,” Tweek’s voice drops off at the end, as if all strength has left him.

Craig stares at him, the reality of the situation sinking in for the first time. Judging by the look on Tweek’s face, Craig realises that he’s not the only one.

“Well… maybe they won’t. I mean there’s grounds for discrimination-”

“Even _if_ they didn’t assume I’m a drunk, I’m not a safe bet am I?” Tweek sighs, breaking into a watery smile. “I don’t even have a contact number.”

“No phone?” Craig asks, realising that it’s a stupid question even as it leaves his mouth.

“It got stolen back when I was… when I wasn’t myself,” Tweek says in a quiet voice, pushing his cake around. He hasn’t touched it. Craig doesn’t think that he will either.

Craig isn’t sure why he says what he says next. Something about this entire situation- saving a man’s soul, seeing the strength and beauty of humanity in the way that he keeps trying his best and now, risking all of that being lost- it shakes him to his core. Craig didn’t save this man only for him to be lost once again. He didn’t feel God guiding his hand for the first time in a long time, only for the world to turn its back afterwards.

“2185 Lowell Boulevard, Denver, 80230,” Craig says.

“Huh?” Tweek asks, confused.

“That’s the address of the rectory,” Craig says as he slips a cigarette free of the pack, tapping it twice and lifting it to his lips.

“What?” Tweek all but squeaks. “Father I can’t! If they find out I’m lying, I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble!”

Craig quirks an eyebrow, unsure of what kind of terrible trouble he thinks Craig would get into. He’s sort of adorable in his own, naive way.

“Why would it be a lie?” Craig says simply, words muffled slightly by his cigarette. He shrugs languidly and taps the form. “2185 Lowell Boulevard, Denver, 80230. I’ve got a sofa you can crash on. There’s no use giving them my number as a contact number if you’re not gonna be around to take a call.”

“Father,” Tweek gasps. “I couldn’t! I- you’ve already done too much for me!”

Craig shrugs again, getting to his feet. “I’m going for a smoke,” he announces. “I’m not gonna force you to stay at my place, Tweek. I don’t care if you put my address down as a lie or otherwise, but I’m _offering_. You can take or leave it, but I’d prefer not to see the guy who miraculously made it back from possession get beaten up by a drunk guy. After the demon, that just seems kind of lame.”

Tweek stares at him. Craig can’t tell if he’s stunned by his bad joke, his offer or both. Then he bursts out laughing.

Craig can’t help smiling in response, despite the caution that has belatedly arisen.

He tries not to dwell on it as he heads outside to light up. He takes a long drag and holds it as he mulls over his rather knee-jerk decision to invite Tweek into his life.

That he feels a deep connection with Tweek is undeniable. It’s not like Craig has a habit of putting up homeless people. Not that he’d reject anyone who asked, God knows he knows what it’s like to fall on hard times. But the fact remains that he barely knows the guy and he’s going about offering his couch. Scratch that, he feels overly invested in his future.

It must be the exorcism. Seeing a man stripped back to the soul, and watching as it’s flayed alive by darkness… it must have forged something stronger than Craig is used to.

Craig tries not to agonise over his decision as he smokes the rest of his cigarette. He tells himself that the unusual thoughtlessness or his decision must have been God’s guiding hand, although the way his fingers itch for another cigarette tells him he’s not quite convinced.

When he heads back inside, he flops heavily into the seat opposite Tweek with an ass-first slide.

“Well?” He asks, picking up his now lukewarm coffee.

Tweek blushes and toys with the pen in his hand. “Um...80230, right?”

Craig nods. “I see you’ve made a decision.”

Tweek nods, ducking his head and looking embarrassed. “I would be hugely grateful to take you up on your offer. Everyone at the shelter is so nice but it’s still…” He trails off.

“Scary?” Craig supplies.

Tweek shakes his head. “Overwhelming,” He says. “Um… I don’t know how much you know about my life before I was, uh, arrested. But I’ve sorta struggled with anxiety for a long time. Making it back from being under the control of a monster gave me a whole new perspective on things. I think it’s helped me to realise that things really could be worse than my mind tells me it is. But still… no matter how positive I try to be, sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts, but everyone around me is shouting and making so much noise,” he breaks off to give a small, one-shouldered shrug. “It’s overwhelming and I just want to hide.”

“Well you can hide on my couch,” Craig says, not unkindly. “I’m not the most talkative guy and I’m not there too much, so it should give you some thinking space.”

Tweek smiles at him for a moment. Craig notices with some discomfort that he’s got a dreamy look on his face. Just when Craig is about to demand what Tweek is looking at, he stirs himself from his stare and shakes his head. “Sorry for the creepy stare. I just realised when you said you’re not talkative that you know tons about me, but I don’t really know anything about _you_.”

Craig shifts in his seat, vaguely disgruntled. “There’s not much to know.”

“You perform exorcisms, smoke and say ‘ _fuck_ ’,” Tweek grins. “You’re definitely like a badass comic-book style priest!”

“I’m really not,” Craig mutters. The mention of his smoking and his discomfort at the direction the conversation is heading in make him itch for a cigarette.

“It’s not very fair that you know shitty things about me and I don’t know anything about you,” Tweek pouts -like a grown man shouldn’t.

“Why? Are you suddenly worried that I’m a serial killer?” Craig says dryly.

“No!” Tweek yelps noisily. Several people glance over in their direction and Tweek ducks back down. “Gah! I don’t think you’re a serial killer but c’mon. Give me something, please? You’re like the only friend I have and I’d like to know more than three things about you. Four if I include your address.”

Playing the ‘ _friend’_ card is underhanded and Craig isn’t entirely convinced that the manipulation is wholly subconscious on Tweek’s part. Still, Craig considers, perhaps that’s what they sort of are. Tweek isn’t a parishioner after all, and these weekly meetings over coffee aren’t for any spiritual guidance. Maybe Craig feels a residual sense of duty towards him after the exorcism, but he can’t honestly say that he doesn’t enjoy their chats.

With a sigh that sounds more like a gruff huff, Craig leans back in his seat. “Fine,” He relents. “You may ask one thing, although I may not answer.”

“Just one?” Tweek complains, looking as if he’s been shortchanged.

“One,” Craig repeats. “And I may not answer.”

“Okay,” Tweek sighs, defeated. After a moment though, his frown eases and he looks thoughtful, as if really, truly considering what to ask. It almost makes Craig snort in amusement. He finds it pretty funny that Tweek is taking it so seriously, even if he _does_ hate talking about himself.

“Okay,” Tweek says finally. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

Craig groans. Of all the things Tweek could ask, he asks the lamest and most uncomfortable thing possible. Craig had hoped that Tweek would be above all that, but no, here he is asking one of Craig’s least favourite questions.

He shoots Tweek a glare to let him know just how disgusted he is with the question. Tweek shrinks back in response, but Craig notices that the cheeky shit is smothering a grin.

“No,” Craig grinds out. He taps his finger against his thigh, resisting the enormous urge he has to leave for another smoke. He knows full well it’ll look like running away.

“Oh, wow,” Tweek replies, looking taken aback. “Never? You’ve never had a relationship? Even before you became a priest?”

“That’s not what I said,” Craig says, quiet. He meets Tweek’s confused stare with a steady stare of his own.

“But you said-”

“That I haven’t had a girlfriend,” Craig interrupts him. This time he does reach for his cigarettes.

“I don’t get it,” Tweek admits, studying Craig as he fishes his pack out. He sighs and takes on that defeated look again. “You said I have one question, but you didn’t answer it.”

“I _said_ that I might choose not to answer,” Craig responds, pointing at him with his cigarette. “I actually did answer. You just asked the wrong question.” Craig lets Tweek ponder that as he slides to his feet. “I’m going for a smoke. I’ll meet you outside.”

It’s more of a tactical retreat than it is fleeing, but it still leaves a sharp tang of distaste in Craig’s mouth. He hadn’t counted on Tweek being so interested in his life when he’d offered to let him stay. Not that he’d thought much about it at all.

Whilst his past isn’t some source of great secrecy, Craig hasn’t made a point of sharing it with anyone but those who know, and he doesn’t relish in the thought now. Some of his more gossipy parishioners have pried since he was given his holy orders, but they’re easy to side step. They have enough decorum to not push too hard, despite their obvious disappointment. Not that it would take much more than a Google search of his name and a little digging to find _some_ things out.

And now here’s Tweek, his first sort-of-friend since he bonded with Token back in college. Of course he’d logically want to get to know Craig, given that he’s going to be moving in. But Craig isn’t sure he’s prepared to give him that. He isn’t even sure if he should give Tweek anything more than a strictly professional relationship. Whether he should stop muddying the waters with this friendly stuff.

He’s still smoking his cigarette when Tweek comes out to join him. He falls into step beside Craig and peers up at him, looking slightly guilty.

“So I have another question, and this time I promise it’s not a nosey one,” Tweek says.

Craig grunts, wondering if this is going to be an olive branch, or salt in the wound. “Go on,” he says gruffly.

“Do you always do that thing with your cigarettes?”

It’s not the question Craig was expecting. He frowns, confused and a little irritated -with Tweek or himself, he isn’t sure. “Do what?”

“Tap it twice?” Tweek asks, meeting his eyes.

Craig pauses, looking at the cigarette poised between his fingers. “Huh,” He says slowly, a little taken aback. “Good question. I suppose I do.” He pauses, considering it himself. “Habit, I guess. I used to smoke for the fun of it on nights out. I’d always smoke roll-ups and I’d tap it to make sure the tobacco was distributed right. That must be where it’s from.” He hasn’t thought about back then for a long time. The nights out, the occasional dabble with the odd bit of dope, laughing as someone got into trouble. Normalcy.

This time, Tweek leaves him with his thoughts, standing in silence beside Craig as he languidly finishes his smoke. When he starts to fidget, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Craig finally takes pity on him.

“You’re surprisingly observant,” Craig comments as he throws the butt into a nearby bin and starts towards his car.

Tweek falls into step beside him. “You think?” He pauses, falling quiet as he slips into the passenger seat and clips on his seatbelt. After Craig brings the engine to life, Tweek continues, speaking in a slow, thoughtful sort of voice. “I guess I’ve always been on the fringes. I’m anxious about interacting with people but I also really like them. So I guess when I felt like I couldn’t talk to someone, I’d watch instead.” He pauses to grin toothily at Craig. It’s momentarily distracting. “Maybe it’s like you said, maybe it can help me to be a better barista- one who can actually help people.”

“Maybe you should mention that in your interview?” Craig says.

Tweek laughs, gaze dropping to his lap as he smooths his fingers over the application form. “Let’s not be hasty,” he says, although he smiles as he’s saying it. “But I’m going to apply for every job I can. I won’t inconvenience you for long, Father.”

Craig sends him a quick glance. “You’re not an inconvenience, Tweek. You’re a guy who’s been dealt a bad hand. Besides, you’re not gonna be some freeloader. I expect you to pull your weight.”

Tweek nods quickly. “I will! However I can!” He says with so much conviction that, for a second, he’s adorable.

“Okay. We’ll work that out when you get to mine. Maybe you can help clean and cook or something,” Craig says.

“Anything!” Tweek chirps. “I’m more than happy to.”

Craig nods, and with that they lapse into comfortable silence. The awkwardness from the café has eased, although Craig doesn’t doubt that it’s probably playing on Tweek’s mind.

When he pulls up into a space outside the shelter, Tweek doesn’t immediately jump out. Instead he takes a breath and grips the form in his lap, causing the paper to crinkle slightly.

“I’m really sorry about earlier,” he says softly, sounding so much like a man at confession. Craig doesn’t need him to expand on it. He knows where the apology is coming from.

“Don’t worry about it,” Craig says. “You’re not the first to ask.”

Tweek nods. “I still shouldn’t have been so nosey. I can see that it hurts you.”

Craig blinks, looking over to Tweek. Hurts him? He barely thinks about it (that’s a lie). It’s interesting that someone so observant thinks it hurts him.

“I’m used to it,” Craig says. He tries for dismissive, but it comes out guarded.

Tweek toys with his form, neatening out the wrinkles that he’s put there. “May I ask what his name was?”

Craig looks across at him, eyes taking in the trepidation flowing off Tweek in waves. For some reason, seeing him shrink away, expecting rejection tugs at something inside Craig.

Against his better judgement, he replies. “Thomas.”

The word leaves his lips far more gently than he intended to, spoken like a cherished whisper. He hasn’t thought about Thomas for a while. Tries not to, anyway. Tries not to think about where he is, or what he’s doing. Tries not to wonder if he ever made it into the programme they joked- but secretly really wanted to go on- at NASA. Tries not to hope that he found someone new. Someone better than Craig had been.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up,” Tweek says in a small voice that shakes Craig from his thoughts. He’s uncurled slightly, looking more sad than worried.

Craig shrugs. It’s his cross to bear. “Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past.”

“But isn’t being gay problematic for you?” Tweek asks, hesitant.

“Extremely,” Craig says in a dry voice. “But even if I were straight, I’d still have to be celibate. I don’t practice it any more, and I -as any priest would- ignore and resist temptation. I apologise to God when I have the odd, rogue thought. I figure that He can see how much I’m trying and He knows we’re not infallible. He made me this way, after all.”

Tweek nods, but he still looks sad in a way that makes Craig feel extremely uncomfortable. It makes him wonder if Tweek can smell the bullshit. Whether he can pierce beneath the calm surface and see the tumulus struggle beneath.

Craig drags his gaze away, coughing to try to inject _some_ noise into the car. “If it makes you feel uncomfortable about crashing at mine, you really don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not!” Tweek jolts in his seat. “I’m really not! I’ve known loads of gay guys in my life! I’ve honestly never felt threatened by it. They’re usually really nice.”

Craig fixes him with a disbelieving look. “You’ve known loads of gay guys growing up in your bumpkin town?”

Tweek shrugs and chances a small grin. “Gay guys are good for the coffee business?”

Craig blinks. Blinks again. Then, without warning the tension in the car shatters and, despite feeling very, very tired and very, very exposed, Craig laughs. He laughs until he coughs and has to thump the steering wheel, and flip Tweek off for simply grinning at him.

When he finally sobers, Craig sinks back into his seat with a sigh.

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” He says.

“Well I don’t have much stuff, but I need to tell the shelter that I’ve found somewhere. I need to tell Father Maxi too,” Tweek answers.

At Father Maxi’s name, Craig feels a little thrill of dread ripple through him. It’s not unlike the feeling he used to get as a kid when he’d done something and wasn’t sure how his parents would react. He’d always paint a devil-may-care facade on his face, but like any kid he’d always been afraid of incurring their disappointment.

The thought makes him almost laugh. He’s a grown-ass man and he’s worried that his peer is going to question his motives, even though it’s totally baseless.

“Okay well I have a wedding rehearsal I need to get back for. It might go on a bit, so I might not get back here until about half ten.”

“I can wait ‘til tomorrow if that’s easier?” Tweek offers.

The thought of Tweek staying another night in a place where he could get another black eye or worse sets Craig’s mouth in a thin line.

“No,” he says. “I’m fetching you tonight.”

Despite the commanding tone, Tweek only smiles in response. “Tonight it is,” he agrees. “I’ll wait for you in the foyer?”

“Sure. If I’m a little late, don’t go assuming I’ve changed my mind.”

Tweek colours at that and goes to say something -possibly a denial- before he huffs and steps out of the car.

“See you later, roomie,” Tweek laughs.

He throws the door shut before Craig has a chance to shout “don’t call me that” back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in: Craig's a homo.
> 
> AS IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW.
> 
> Seriously eating into my contingency now, what with work being so busy haha. I'm only around 22 pages ahead now. Hoping I can keep up the pace, but this chapter felt like it needed to be this long.


	8. Chapter 7

True to his estimations, the shy and coy bride has turned into Bridezilla and the rehearsal slips well past the scheduled time. It’s not the first time Craig has seen the fairytale church wedding dream shatter and he wagers it won’t be the last.

Too few people take into account that the rite of marriage was historically an intimate affair, full of Catholic pomp, of course, but intimate. It certainly didn’t involve horse-drawn carriages and releasing doves.

The bride had nearly had a meltdown when Craig had flat out rejected letting her release doves (which looked more like pigeons) into his church. She hadn’t seemed to accept that Craig didn’t want his rafters nested in and his pews covered in birdshit. She’d already been upset over assuming (incorrectly) that a horse-drawn carriage would fit into the tiny stone path that led to the church doors. The doves had been the straw to break the camel's back.

Craig honestly doesn’t care. She and her husband have visited the church as much as they needed to to secure a church wedding. No more, no less. He doesn’t doubt that he won’t see them again after the wedding tomorrow and honesty, he’s really not going to lose any sleep over it.

He finally manages to get the sobbing bride out of the door at twenty to eleven. He follows them out, practically ushering them, and splits off towards his car as soon as he’s locked up.

A few prayers seem to net him a run of green lights. Against all odds (and maybe a bit of speeding -forgive him, Lord-), Craig manages to make it to the shelter in only twelve minutes. He hopes it’s a sign that he’s doing the right thing.

He pulls up and kills the engine, stepping out into the crisp night air. It reminds him that he doesn’t have his jacket or hat and he struggles not to shiver, despite being used to the cold. He has no pockets to shove his hands into either, so he clenches them instead, keys biting into his palm as he marches towards the main entrance to St. Francis Centre.

Tweek looks up the moment that he steps in, face jerking up and plastered with a hopeful expression. He smiles at the sight of Craig, no doubt relieved that whatever he’d been telling himself about Craig not showing up, or having a joke at his expense not being true.

“I thought I told you not to assume the worst if I was late,” Craig grunts, heading over to Tweek as he rises to his feet.

Leaning down, Tweek collects his very full rucksack, looking at lot like a hiker about to go on a camping trip. It makes Craig feel momentarily sad when he realises that it’s probably all he owns in the world.

“I know,” Tweek says, struggling into the straps. “But I can’t exactly help it.”

“I know,” Craig says, distracted as a kind-looking woman approaches.

“Are you Father Tucker?” She asks, studying him. She’s probably trying to judge if he’s the real deal, or has a weird taste in costumes.

“I am,” Craig replies.

“You’re much younger than I was picturing,” the woman laughs. “Just for the purposes of our records, you confirm that Mr. Tweak is going to be staying in your home?”

“He is,” Craig says with a nod.

Looking positively delighted, the woman turns a smile to Tweek.

“You know where we are Mr. Tweak. I’m just very glad you found a friend to stay with,” she says.

“Thank you very much,” Tweek says, looking a little bashful.

“Okay, let's go,” Craig says, jerking his head towards the door. Tweek makes a squeaky noise that Craig assumes is agreement and falls into step close behind.

They head to Craig’s car, easy to spot since it’s one of only four on the car park, and slide in.

“Um, how was the wedding rehearsal?” Tweek asks, clutching his bag to his lap in a way that makes him look like a kid.

Craig glances over as he starts up and grimaces at him.

“Wow, that bad?” Tweek laughs.

“Let’s just say that TV and movies haven’t helped people’s romantic notions of how church weddings work. No one seems to appreciate that they’re old buildings built for worshiping God, and not somewhere to recreate the hanging gardens of Babylon. Or set albino peacocks loose. Or have ribbon-wrapped white chocolate candies hung the confession booths,” Craig drawls, going cold at the memories.

“Jesus, man,” Tweek comments. “I guess they aren’t happy when you say no?”

“The more cordial ones who remember I’m the one who’s fucking marrying them stick with passive aggression. Some, however, blow their top and go full nuclear.” He pauses to shrug. “Weddings feel like a fucked up competition these days, if I’m honest.”

“That’s kinda sad,” Tweek says.

Craig only hums in response. He’d never say he _hates_ marrying people. It’s one of the nicer jobs he has, but it still sucks when weddings grow into so much more than just joining two people together. He is, after all is said and done, a romantic. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he loves _love_. Love is fundamental to his belief in God. Love is why he feels so strongly that God doesn’t judge human flaws too harshly. Love is what Craig felt in that room, another lifetime ago, when power that wasn’t his own guided his hand and his words into saving Tweek.

He’s still mulling it over when he parks up outside the rectory. He pauses before leaving the car, turning to Tweek and observing him for a moment. He’s silently giving Tweek a chance to pull out if he’s changed his mind, but Tweek seems to misread the look.

“Um, are you really sure about this, Father?” He asks, clutching his bag tightly between his fists.

Craig nods. “Yeah, I’m sure,” Craig nods, even though part of him isn’t. “Come on.”

He steps out of the car, locking it with a button press once Tweek has joined him by the rectory door. Swinging the keys once on his forefinger with a jangle, Craig slides the door key into the lock and unlocks the door. He swings it open with an open palm and steps over the threshold.

He notices as he bends down to pull off his shoes that Tweek is still hovering on the front door step.

“If you’re gonna be staying here, you’re gonna have to learn not to wait to be invited in,” Craig says in a sarcastic drawl as he places his shoes on the rack.

Tweek jumps at the words and goes a rosy red with embarrassment. He steps jerkily across the threshold and mutters “I know!”

Shaking his head, Craig loosens his collar and trudges towards his airing cupboard with a huge yawn.

It doesn’t take him long to pull out a fresh blanket, shaking it out. It’s not great, but it will do for the night. He folds it over his arm and heads back into the living room, draping it over the back of the sofa.

“I can sort the arrangements out after the wedding tomorrow,” Craig says. “Hopefully this will do for now.”

“Are you kidding?” Tweek says, setting his bag down. “This’ll more than do, man. This is already ten times better.”

Craig grimaces at that. “You say that, but I have no idea how comfortable that couch is to sleep on.” He moves away and crouches before the fireplace. “If you get cold in the night, click this button to the left. It should start up.” Standing again, Craig gestures to a small corridor to the left. “Bathroom is down there-”

“That’s close to the guinea pigs right?” Tweek asks.

Craig pauses to nod. “Yeah. The bathroom is opposite that room. It's pretty much yours. My room has a small en suite. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

Tweek nods, moving to sit on the sofa. He lowers himself slowly, looking far too awed at such a simple home.

“I gotta get up at four so I might wake you up in the morning. I’ll try to be quiet,” Craig says.

“That’s okay,” Tweek smiles. “I’m not the best sleeper anyway.”

“Even so,” Craig says, stern. “I’ll still try not to wake you. I’ll leave the spare key on the side by the door. Keep it. Also-” he breaks off, moving to the sideboard to swipe up his wallet. Opening it, he thumbs through some notes, and pulls four out.

“There’s two hundred dollars there. I know it’s not a huge amount, but use it to get yourself the necessities.”

Tweek’s eyes bulge and his mouth drops open. “Father! I _can’t_!” He squeaks.

Craig doesn’t flinch, continuing to dangle the money in front of his face. “I’m a priest. Charity is a thing for us.”

“Yeah, but there’s people who need it more! This is already enough!” Tweek argues, gently pushing his hand away.

“You need clothes for your interview, don’t you? More shoes? Bus fair to hand your application in?” Craig says, waving the money again. When Tweek’s head drops, Craig knows he’s won this argument. Rather than bask in the victory though, he softens slightly instead. “Look, if you’re embarrassed or something call it a loan, okay? Pay me back if you can, and if you forget then it’ll be a gift. Sound fair?”

“I won’t forget,” Tweek says stubbornly. Still, he lifts his hand, reaching for the money and touching it with a gentle grip. “Are you really _sure?”_

Craig rolls his eyes. “For the last time, yes. I have to be up early so stop arguing with me.”

Tweek nods dumbly and pulls the money free of Craig’s grasp. “Thank you _so_ much, Father,” he whispers with so much reverence that Craig feels momentarily embarrassed under the attention.

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugs. “Go and get yourself sorted out with necessities tomorrow. We’ll talk about what else you need after this wedding is done with.”

Tweek nods, still fixing Craig with that awe-struck look.

Unable to withstand it any long, Craig huffs and turns away. “You know where I am if you need me.”

He makes it to part-way up the stairs when a warm voice gives him pause.

“Goodnight, Father.”

Despite himself, Craig smiles. “Goodnight, Tweek," he says quietly.

**

 

The wedding goes smoothly, despite a couple of hiccups. On the day Bridezilla calms, realises that her wedding is about love, and focuses on that instead.

It’s definitely not one of the worst weddings he’s officiated, but Craig still breathes a sigh of relief once the last, dramatic bridal photographs have been taken and everyone has left the church. He’s felt slightly antsy since he left the rectory, suspecting it to be delayed reaction to the monumental shift that’s taken place in his safe, little world.

It hasn’t been long enough for him to decide whether he regrets his decision to let Tweek stay. He’s not even spoken to him since they went to bed last night.

Still, Craig had struggled to sleep, tossing and turning as the presence of another person in his home had weighed on his mind. He hadn’t even been able to get up and go for a smoke because he’d left his lighter in the other room and he was extremely reluctant to wake Tweek.

When his alarm had gone off, he’d probably managed a couple of hours sleep and felt the worse for it. He’d crept through his home as quietly as possible, slipping past the living room and to the bathroom for his forgotten deodorant with slow, careful steps. He hadn’t even bothered to make himself his morning coffee, heading straight out instead, pausing only to swipe up his lighter.

Now, hours later, he’s itching for a nap. As nice as the wedding ended up being, it had been a lot of work. Home beckons like a mother’s embrace and Craig is more than happy to let auto-pilot click on as his weary hands lock the church door and his tired feet drag him homewards.

He feels faintly alarmed when he finds his key unable to turn the usual way, which sets in a realisation that the door is unlocked. Half a second later, logical thought pierces the veil that habit drops on him like a knife through gossamer, and he realises that Tweek must be back.

It’s an odd thought and not one that he thinks he’ll easily get used to. For a ludicrous moment he wonders if he should knock. Thankfully the thought passes before he can ridicule himself for it and, with not a single jot of his internal struggle showing on his face, he pushes the door open and says: “I’m back!”

“Welcome home!” Tweek says, bursting out of the kitchen with a cheerful grin. “How was the wedding?”

Craig, a little taken aback by being asked how his day has been, takes a moment before replying. “Not so bad in the end,” he says, loosening his collar and flopping heavily into his favourite armchair. “How about you? Did you go shopping?”

Tweek nods, throwing his arms out in a gesture Craig realises a little slowly to show off the green knit sweater he’s currently swaddled in. “I did! I found this great thrift store and got a ton of new clothes from there. I even got a couple of shirts for my job interview!”

Craig’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “They phoned?”

Tweek nods. “Yeah, around half an hour ago,” he grins, looking nothing short of delighted. It makes Craig smile back, finding that Tweek wears the expression well. “It’s on Thursday since the manager isn’t in tomorrow.”

“I told you to be optimistic,” Craig nods.

“Well it wasn’t so much that I’m optimistic,” Tweek says, bobbing his head. “But I got two shirts, a tie and two pairs of smart slacks because even if I don’t get the job, I really am gonna apply everywhere I can.”

Craig allows himself to look impressed. “You got all of that in a thrift store?”

“Ah, no,” Tweek says, looking a little embarrassed. “I had to get the shoes and one pair of pants from Walmart. Underwear too,” he adds, going a deeper shade of red.

“You’re allowed to talk about underwear in front of a priest,” Craig smirks. “We don’t explode.”

Despite himself, Tweek allows a little laugh. “Socks too?”

“Socks too,” Craig agrees. “You still okay for money?”

Tweek nods, head bobbing quickly in comical, little motions. “Yeah! If you don’t mind me keeping some back for fair-” he cuts himself off, reaching into his pocket and pulling some crumpled notes free. When Craig doesn’t reach out to take them, he waves his hand

“Dude I didn’t ask because I wanted change. I wanted to make sure you were still okay, that’s all.”

Tweek glances at the money in his hand. Slowly he lets his arm fold back in, allowing himself to settle the money in his lap. “It’s funny,” he comments in a voice as soft and thoughtful as his expression. “I was spoilt growing up. I think it was my parents’ way of connecting with me. They kind of sucked if I’m honest, but we had a comfortable amount of money, and I always had any toy I wanted. From childhood ‘til probably just a few months ago two hundred dollars wasn’t much to think about. I’ve never been crazy ostentatious, but it didn’t mean much to me. But now… now a couple of hundred bucks is literally world changing. I can’t believe how naive I was. All those times walking past homeless guys, or saying no to charity collectors… being so selfish.”

Craig has been sitting silently, letting him speak, but he can’t help interrupting him at that. “It’s not selfish, Tweek. And there’s nothing wrong with being naive. We’re all naive at points. It’s not the same as being ignorant.”

“Maybe,” Tweek says, although he looks unconvinced. “Anyway, I made sure to hold plenty back for bus fair and stuff-” he cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh! I forgot! I got you a present!”

Craig watches, slightly bewildered as Tweek jumps up to his feet and darts towards the kitchen. “Uh? A present? You really didn’t have to-”

Tweek re-appears with an excited smile stretched across his lips. He thrusts a wine bottle out in front of him with a proud: “Ta-dah!”

“What?” Craig says, eyes straying down to take in the label. It’s a Sauvignon Blanc. Californian.

“I didn’t know what kind you liked, so I guessed white since not everyone likes how heavy red is. It’s probably not the best because it was only ten dollars, but I wanted to say thank you and I thought we could toast? Not that you have to share it with me,” Tweek chatters away. He almost misses Craig’s expression. When he does finally notice, his expression falls. “You hate it.”

“No,” Craig says, but it comes out raspy. He clears his throat. Tries again. “No, I don’t hate it. I’m grateful for the gift, Tweek, but you didn’t have to.”

“I definitely do,” Tweek insists. “In fact, as soon as I’m on my feet again I’ll get champagne!”

Craig flashes him a small smile, touched by the thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Tweek, but I’d have to refuse even champagne.”

“Huh?” Tweek frowns, confused. “Why?”

Here we go. Craig’s third-least favourite topic of conversation. “I don’t drink,” he says.

“What?” Tweek says, looking shocked. “Aren’t priests allowed to drink alcohol? I thought that was Muslims!”

“One of our major rituals often involves imbibing red wine as a metaphor for the blood of Christ,” Craig says, giving him a little smirk. “There’s no rules against priests drinking. It’s just me. I don’t drink.”

“You don’t like it?” Tweek asks.

Craig hesitates before replying. “That’s… not the issue, no.”

It takes Tweek a while to figure it out. He starts off frowning, face scrunched up slightly as if he’s trying to solve a great riddle. It takes a little while to smooth out, expression shifting to surprise and then on to concern.

“Oh my God,” he says. “I thought it was weird that you didn’t have any wine glasses, or a drinks cabinet but I didn’t-” he breaks off, shooting Craig a glance heavy with guilt. “I’m so sorry! I’m so stupid.”

“Don't say that,” Craig insists. He reaches out with both hands, encircling one palm around the neck of the bottle. “It’s not like I can’t cope being around it. I just won’t join you in drinking it.”

Tweek takes a moment, looking down at Craig’s hands. “Um, may I- may I ask-”

“How long have I been sober?” Craig asks, saving Tweek from any more embarrassment. At Tweek’s nod, Craig takes a breath. He hates talking about this, he really, truly does. Hates the judgemental looks he gets. The comments about how he’s too young to have an alcohol problem. But if Tweek is going to be living with him, maybe it’ll help them both if Craig shares a little. “Two years this month,” he says. “Before that I managed nearly four, but I had a bit of a relapse. I came close last year too, but prayer got me through.”

Tweek nods. “I knew some guys with… problems. I know it’s not easy to break free of it,” He pauses, fixing Craig with a soft smile. It’s not what Craig expected and it momentarily takes him aback. “I think you’re really brave.”

Craig snorts softly. “Brave? I smoke twenty a day and all I can think about right now is that wine. I’m hardly brave.”

Tweek eeps softly, jumping into action and jerking the bottle back with a slosh. “I’ll tip it down the sink!” He offers.

“Don’t. God doesn’t like a quitter. I’d be an even crappier priest than I already am if I couldn’t even cope with you drinking a glass in front of me.”

“It’s still not fair to you,” Tweek says, shaking his head. He pauses when Craig’s words sink in. “Wait- you think you’re a crappy priest?” He shrieks, sounding genuinely horrified.

Craig spares him a small, self-deprecating smirk. “I’m not exactly the best, Tweek. I’m gay, I smoke, and I’m an alcoholic. Couple that with the fact that I’m not exactly a warm person, it doesn’t paint a great picture of priestliness.”

It feels weird to say it out loud. There’s a whole bunch of people who _know_ , of course, but Tweek is only the third person he’s _told_.

Tweek’s shoulders drop. “Jesus,” he says, voice soft. “I don’t know much about priests so I guess that’s kinda bad, but you saved my soul from a demon. Most priests are just out there making people feel better, but you take action. I think that makes you the _best_ priest.”

“I’m definitely not that,” Craig says with a small, sardonic laugh. “But thank you. We could argue this back and forth all day. Regardless of whether I’m a good priest or a bad priest, I’m still _a_ priest. It’s my job to fight temptation and guide others to do the same. That won’t change.”

Tweek nods. “I still think you’re very brave,” he says, voice still as soft. “I’m sorry for buying this. I’ll tip it out.”

“Don’t do that. You bought it with the right intentions. Put it out of sight for today and then donate it, or give it to someone else you’d like to thank.”

“I guess I could give it to the shelter staff,” Tweek says, thoughtful.

“That’d be nice of you,” Craig nods.

Tweek nods, sitting down heavily and looking a little defeated. He pulls his bag over with his foot and stuffs the wine bottle into it. Craig eyes the overflowing rucksack thoughtfully, scanning the room a moment later.

“You could do with a drawer,” he comments, rising to his feet. He heads over to the old merchant’s chest, jerking one of the drawers open and coughing a little as dust splutters out. “Okay,” He wheezes, turning his face away. “Your first job can be to clear this old thing out so you’ve got somewhere to put your clothes.”

“Father! I can’t have a drawer! That’s, like, too much!” Tweek squeaks.

“It’s a drawer. If anything you’d be doing me a favour cleaning the shit out of here. God knows what’s in these drawers. In the two years I’ve been here I’ve never even looked.”

“You’ve never been curious?” Tweek asks, surprised.

“Nope. It’s probably some old letters and crap the previous priest left,” Craig says, refraining from adding that the last priest who lived here properly was Father Maxi. Father Jude had spent a brief time here, but he was only ever interim and Craig isn’t sure he tried to stamp his own mark on the place. From what he’s heard, Father Jude was a rather severe old bastard. A real bread and water kind of guy. Spartan, but in a rigourous way, as opposed to Craig’s which is borne purely out of laziness.

“Well… I mean if you’re sure…” Tweek says, sounding a little shy.

“I am,” Craig says. “Do it whenever. Just seems pointless to screw up your new clothes.”

Tweek nods at that, still looking a bit overwhelmed. He straightens as a thought visibly hits him. “Oh, speaking of, do you think you could show me where your iron and stuff is?” He asks.

“Sure. Although if you’re offering to do mine too I won’t say no,” Craig jokes.

“Oh I see,” Tweek smiles back. “You wanted a live-in maid all along.”

“Yup,” Craig says. “This has all been one big con. I just wanted someone to sort my shit out.”

Tweek laughs. It’s a nice sound, light and happy. Craig doesn’t laugh all that much, really. It makes him wonder when the last time this rectory was filled with such laughter.

“Well I can’t pretend that _I’m_ not curious. I used to love all those antique programmes,” Tweek declares. “So challenge accepted. I take it cleaning stuff is in your kitchen?”

“Yeah,” Craig nods. “I’ve also got a utility room. Well, it’s a glorified lean-to with a proper roof. I’ve got a washer-dryer and ironing board and shit in there, so help yourself. I’m happy to do your laundry though. Laundry relaxes me.”

“Laundry _relaxes_ you?” Tweek says, disbelieving.

Craig’s cheeks colour in response. “Don’t judge me. There’s worse things to enjoy. _Weirder_ things.”

Tweek’s expression softens a little bit at that. “Yeah, you’re not wrong there.”

They fall into silence. Craig bites back a yawn, feeling oddly emotionally drained. Vulnerable, he muses. It’s not often that he speaks of himself so freely. Tweek seems to have the uncanny ability to make him let his guard down. He hopes that doesn’t come back to bite him on the ass.

“Can I be honest with you?” Tweek says suddenly, breaking through the quiet.

Craig nods. “Sure. I’m a soul of discretion. Comes with the job.”

“I’ve been waiting since yesterday for you to change your mind. I wouldn’t even blame you, having an almost stranger occupying your space. But even when I fuck up, like with the wine, or make awkward, over-friendly jokes because I am an awkward, lame kinda guy you stay nice to me. It makes me feel safe and it kind of means everything to me,” he breaks off his rambling, shifting as he wears an uncomfortable expression. “I know you said it’s your job but I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Sorry for going on, it’s just, I— yeah.”

“I’d rather you get it off your chest,” Craig says after a short pause. He doesn’t add that he knows enough about conditions like anxiety that it’s better not to internalise things. When Tweek doesn’t seem to ease up though, Craig tries a different tack.

“What’s this shit about strangers anyway?” He says with forced casualness. Tweek looks up from his lap, brow creased in confusion. “Before, you said I was your friend, and I sure as hell don’t tell strangers I’m a fucking train wreck.”

Tweek ducks his head. A pink blush dusts the bridge of his nose, but his lips are quirked up in a smile. “I didn’t realise that you considered me a friend.”

“It’s not a compliment. I have precisely one other friend and I barely speak to him,” Craig says dryly. “You’re in the odd position of being my first exorcism and plier of pastries. It’s catapulted you onto an extremely short shortlist.”

“That just makes me feel luckier,” Tweek says, smile stretching wider. “Maybe it was my plan all along.”

“Well it was masterfully done,” Craig says, hoisting himself to his feet. “And on that topic-closer I’m gonna grab some shut-eye. I’m wiped.”

Nodding, Tweek pulls his backpack to himself and starts rummaging through it. He pauses and looks up, sending him an accusatory look. “Wait, you haven’t eaten yet!”

Craig waves a hand. “Grab my wallet and order a pizza or something. If I wake up before it’s too late, I’ll grab a couple of slices.”

“Are you sure?” Tweek asks. “You really shouldn’t be telling guys to go through your wallet.”

“Whatever, I-” Craig pauses, eyes widening when he realises that ‘ _I trust you’_ is on the tip of his tongue. He supposes that he must trust Tweek to invite him into his own home, but the thought still catches him off guard. It makes him feel that momentarily vulnerability again. If he focuses on it he’ll grow uncomfortable, so he catches himself, clears his throat. Says: “It’s not a problem. I have faith that you’re not running some excellently played scam. If you are, I’m a poor target. Priests aren’t exactly high-rollers.” Joking feels safer than the truth.

If Tweek catches his hesitation, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he laughs a little and shakes his head. “Lucky for you, I’m a terrible liar.”

“Yes, I had noticed,” Craig smirks. He straightens and rubs his tired back. “Anyway, I’m gonna get some shut-eye. Order the pizza.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Father,” Tweek says, glancing up with a smile.

Craig pauses in his journey up to his bathroom. He reaches out to tap the plaster on the wall with his knuckle.

“You know, on the subject of my friends, they tend to call me _Craig_. Well, half of them do at least,” he says, frowning to himself.

Tweek’s head pops up like a meerkat’s over his bag. He scowls in confusion, eyes squinted and fixed on Craig. Craig taps the wall again, grimacing slightly at how awkward he suddenly feels. He’s about to turn away when understanding dawns on Tweek’s expression with an almost visible shift.

“Are you looking to make that one hundred percent?” Tweek asks, looking a little bit shy.

“Kinda. I prefer whole numbers,” Craig replies.

“Alright,” Tweek smiles. “G'night then… Craig.”

Despite the fact that Tweek says it like it’s a foreign word upon his tongue, and despite the fact that it doesn’t seem to roll off naturally, Craig’s heart still does a strange, little jump.

“Goodnight, Tweek.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Tweek moves in.
> 
> Careful, Craig. Try not to catch _too_ many feelings...
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who are interested, Craig's church uses grape juice and not wine (I didn't think Tweek would know enough about it to ask Craig himself!)


	9. Chapter 8

Despite an almost hilariously awkward start, Tweek adjusts to calling Craig by name quickly.

After that, it doesn’t take long to fall into a rhythm. Within the first week they settle into a comfortable routine of interaction. True to his word, Tweek works hard around the rectory. He starts by cleaning out drawers before moving on to dusting and vacuuming. From there he moves on to maintaining the Guinea pigs and doing the dishes. By the time they reach the week and a half point, Tweek has moved on to having dinner on the table for them both. Considering Craig’s lack of time and lack of capability both, Tweek’s willingness to cook is a blessing that Craig welcomes.

It’s not without issue, of course. Sharing his space with someone else requires a significant adjustment. Craig hasn’t shared a space with someone else since his training. Before that, college. He’d almost forgot what it’s like: the compromises you have to learn to make, the hyper-awareness of what annoys you in other people, an uncomfortable self-awareness of what’s annoying in yourself.

The toughest thing to overcome is the fundamental difference with which they deal with their own shit. Craig is an old pro when it comes to internalisation. He’s a king of compartmentalisation and breaking things down in quiet contemplation, wielding logic and faith like a master tradesman uses his tools.

Tweek, on the other hand, is a talker. Sharing makes him feel better. He works his problems out by working through them aloud. The initial shock of it sends Craig reeling. The noise of Tweek’s many attempts to start conversation, or share his concerns jars the safe quiet of Craig’s home. Where once the rectory was stirred only by the dull sound of a television, or the inquisitive grunt of a guinea pig, it’s alive with noise. Tweek speaking, Tweek singing softly as he tidies, Tweek pulling the oven door open with a whoosh, Tweek dropping things with a crash, Tweek chattering to excited guinea pigs as they chatter back, Tweek muttering obscenities when the vacuum cleaner gets blocked, Tweek asking him how his day has been.

For the first few days, the high of helping someone has worn off and Craig wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake. By the week and a half mark, he allows himself the guilty pleasure of wondering when he can get rid of him. By week three he can grudgingly admit that it isn’t _that_ bad, really, that it could be a lot worse, that maybe in some ways some things are a little better now.

By five weeks the rectory starts to feel like a safe place again. For the first time it starts to feel like a home.

Craig chooses not to think about what a dangerous thought that is.

 

**

Sundays -as always- present Craig with a task-list three miles long. Tweek accompanies him in the morning sometimes, helping him to clean up what the cleaner has missed. She volunteers, which is kind of her, but she's also ancient and blind as a bat.

This Sunday- six weeks after Tweek has moved in with him, and twelve weeks after Tweek’s existence exploded into his life, not that he’s counting or anything- Craig heads to Church alone, but armed with thermos full of coffee prepared by Tweek. He doesn’t mind. Tweek has a double shift today, a fact which had delighted him. Craig doesn’t envy him. The thought of prolonged contact with customers makes Craig want to heave. Then again though, Tweek is definitely more of a people person than Craig is.

Ironic, really.

He’s still slurping from his thermos as parishioners start to wander in for early prayer.

His heart sinks when he sees Stan Marsh. It’s unusual to see him so early, but he makes his way in and sits down on the first free pew he sees. Craig would usually dismiss his presence until he comes to confess, but today things are a little different. Today Stan has bought another man with him. He’s a larger individual, speaking quickly to Stan in a hushed voice. Stan doesn’t seem happy about the fact, holding a hand up and looking a lot like he’s complaining.

Craig wonders if this is Kyle, finally.

Shrugging the thought away, he delivers his eight o’clock sermon with his usual attitude although, on a whim, he throws in an anecdote of a recent discussion he and Tweek held a couple of weeks ago. The parishioners seem to enjoy it and Craig can’t help his amused reflection that a Buddhist is making him a better priest.

Stan wanders over, scowling at the large man who trails behind him. Craig busies himself with his bible, pretending that he isn’t straining to hear their conversation.

“I’m serious, dude, back off,” Stan is saying.

The other guy- Kyle? Dude? Holds his hands up. “I’m just here for the Jesus vibe. Chill your fucken’ beans.”

“ _Dude_! Don’t swear in a church!” Stan hisses. “And seriously, go and wait outside. This shit is personal.”

“That’s coo’,” the big man says, still ambling after him.

“Go and wait in a pew!” Stan snaps, sounding much like a mother whose patience is wearing thin.

Big man frowns and sinks into a pew. Craig tries not to wince at the way it creaks.

“Father?” Stan asks, directing his words to Craig this time.

“Yes, Mr. Marsh?” Craig says, making as if he’s just been drawn from deep thought.

“Could you take confession, please?”

Craig wants to sigh and say ‘sure’. Instead, he nods, a picture of priestly presence and says: “Of course, my child.”

They retire together to a nearby confessional, taking up their designated spots.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been seven weeks since my last confession,” Stan says. “I’ve not had any further… uh sexual contact with my male friend since my last confession, but I’ve had _thoughts._ ”

“Thoughts are not the same as acting on them. You’ve shown your strength in resisting,” Craig responds. “Thoughts are a test sent by God. Prayer should focus your mind and offer clarity.”

“I have been praying, Father. I’ve prayed hard. I feel better in some ways for staying faithful to my wife. But um… I uh… touched myself to those thoughts on several occasions.”

Craig’s eyebrows arch. Few people confessed to masturbation these days. If they did, Craig wouldn’t move from his confessional. People would have to feed him through the grill.

Still, getting off to Gay Thoughts is a double-whammy of a sin, so Craig can understand the drive to confess.

“By masturbating, you are still committing adultery in your heart. Sexual activity should be saved for your marriage, Mr. Marsh. The act itself is self-centred where God wants it to be about shared love.” He chooses his words wisely as he speaks. The Bible is pretty clear on the topic, although the scientific side of Craig’s mind urges him to be more lenient than the teachings allow. It’s partly why he’s so glad that so few people confess to it these days.

Stan sighs. “I understand, Father. I’ll pray on it. What’s my penance?”

“Say three Hail Marys and one Our Father,” Craig says. “You’ve confessed before God, I believe He forgives you. I absolve you of your sin.”

“Thank you, Father,” Stan says, humble.

“God bless you,” Craig replies.

There’s a pause as Stan leaves the confessional. Craig makes to leave himself, but then there’s a flurry of words outside the confessional before the wood suddenly groans in protest and Craig is aware that someone else is on the other side.

“Cartman!” Stan snaps. “Get out of there.”

Craig hears the door swing firmly shut. Stan protests again- too loudly for a church on Sunday morning. It pulls Craig’s brows down into a sharp scowl and he rubs his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

“Do you want me to take confession, or are you just fooling around?” He grinds out.

“You tell me, Father,” the man on the other side of the grill says cryptically. “The name’s Eric Cartman. You’ve probably heard of me, I’m a pretty big deal around here.”

It’s safe to say that Craig has never heard of him before today, but it answers his question on whether this man is Kyle. For Stan’s sake, he’s glad he isn’t.

Before Craig has a chance to continue otherwise, Eric Cartman continues. “I’m a journalist. My blog looks for the truth and exposes lies. I was wondering if you could tell me, Father, is Stan Marsh boning Kyle Broflovski?”

Broflovski, that was it. Kyle Broflovski. Polish-sounding.

“I’m not at liberty to speak of anyone else’s confession,” Craig replies in a voice that doesn’t give away his wandering thoughts. It’s not the first time he’s been asked about a confession by someone other than the confessor, and it probably won’t be the last.

People think that it’s secrets that people share with Craig. They are, in a way, but Craig’s more interested in easing the burden that the secret has imposed on people, not being nosey about the secret itself. It still leads to people being twitchy though, regarding him as some great gatekeeper to all the answers to a failing marriage, or a parent unable to connect with a child.

“Yeah, but come on, man,” Eric Cartman persists. “This is for the _truth_.”

Craig stares at the grill, unamused and unimpressed. He suddenly feels very sorry for Stan. He’s clearly not been subtle enough about his feelings and actions.

“The _truth_ is that Mr. Marsh’s confessions are between me, him and God. I’m not breaking my vows to divulge private matters to some seedy blog,” Craig snaps, irritated. “Now do you intend to confess, or do you want to keep wasting my time?”

In the silence that follows, Craig sighs and berates himself for losing his temper. Perhaps he feels this a little _too_ personally, but the constant battle of resisting misplaced feelings isn’t one he‘d wish on anyone else. It’s bad enough dealing with it alone, even without being harassed by selfish shits wanting to out you.

“I see,” Eric says, sounding unperturbed. “I admire your diligence, Father. I’ll see what I can do to convince you.”

“You won’t. Now is that all?” Craig says.

“For now. The truth doesn’t stay suppressed forever,” Eric says ominously.

He exits the confessional on that note. Craig hears Stan again, unable to make out the words but judging by the pitch that he’s not happy.

The entire thing leaves Craig glad that he has so few friends. People like Eric Cartman make them seem like more hassle than they’re worth.   


**

 

“You got in late,” Craig comments over breakfast the following Monday.

“Oh! Sorry, Craig! I ended up having coffee with Butters, and then we sort of got carried away hanging out,” Tweek replies, ducking his head as he swipes his knife into the butter.

“It was only an observation. You’re not under a curfew, you know,” Craig says, reaching for the coffee. Despite it being nearly six weeks since Tweek took up residence in his living room, and despite how comfortable they seem to be around one another, Tweek still acts like a guest in a lot of ways. Craig supposes that he is, really, but it’s easy to forget when he already feels like he’s a natural part of the furniture.

“I know that,” Tweek says over the rhythmic scrape of his knife spreading butter over his toast. “But I don’t want to take advantage of you putting me up. It won’t happen again.”

Craig waves his hand. “Seriously, it’s fine. I’m just amazed Butters had so much interesting stuff to say.”

Tweek laughs at that. “You’re awful!” He scolds. “Butters is really nice and really fun to talk to.”

“Uhuh,” Craig responds, disbelieving.

Tweek rolls his eyes and moves to take a bite out of his toast. Craig catches how he licks his lips, eyes narrowing in suspicion as Tweek starts acting _too_ casual.

“What?” Craig says.

“Nothing!” Tweek says far too quickly. “Nothing. I was just thinking about what he told me about his dad.”

“What about him?” Craig asks, already knowing where this is going. He feels something drop in his stomach.

Tweek shrugs. “Just… how he shot himself. Because he couldn’t cope. With um. With-”

Craig lowers the spoon of cereal he’s raising back into his bowl with a clatter. “Stephen Stotch was so far in the closet, he was in Narnia. I’m not in the closet. I _know_ what I am.”

“Yeah, repressed,” Tweek mutters.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Craig barks, sharp.

Tweek meets his eyes, challenging. There’s a flash of heat there that Craig doesn’t recognise, a hint of a temper slipping free from its cage. It stirs something hot within Craig’s chest. A spike of molten heat as his own temper rises to meet Tweek’s.

The confrontation lasts for only a few seconds. Tweek breaks it first, casting his eyes downwards to contemplate his toast. It’s a tactical retreat, not an admission of defeat. Nothing about Tweek’s expression changes. Somewhere, beneath the heat of indignation, Craig wonders if Tweek would fight back, _really_ fight back, if he wasn’t constrained by his sense of duty towards Craig.

That same part of Craig badly wants to push it.

Instead, Craig takes a steadying breath. He fixes Tweek with a severe, but controlled glare, resolute as his priestly dignity demands.

“If restraint is what’s required of me to serve God, it’s a sacrifice I am willing to make,” he says with forced steadiness. “I’d thank you to not make light of it.”

“What?” Tweek says, jerking his head back up. “Dude I’m not making light of it! I’m _worried_ , okay?”

“Worried?” Craig frowns. He’s still pissed off. He hates talking about this part of himself. Hates seeing the disgust from people who judge him. Hates seeing the pity from the more liberally minded who don’t understand his faith. Hates seeing how so many of his brothers abuse that sacred duty because it’s so fucking _hard_ to hold back the sinful thoughts, it’s so _hard_ to reject warm memories on quiet, lonely nights, it’s so _hard_ to keep hating a part of yourself that used to make you so happy. It’s got to be worth it. All of it. It’s got to be.

Craig breaks free of his thoughts, feeling like he’s been jolted back into his skeleton. He realises suddenly that the kitchen has fallen into a heavy silence. Tweek is watching him, mildly concerned, the heat from earlier replaced by something softer.

A throb in his jaw tells Craig that he’s been grinding his teeth again. The slight tap of his fingers tells him he wants a cigarette.

“I would prefer not to talk about this, Tweek,” he says. His control slips just enough for the words to come out slightly raspy.

“I get that, Craig, I really do but I don’t think it’s good for you-”

“With all respect it’s none of you business,” Craig snaps. Tweek’s shoulders sink in response as a flash of hurt crosses his face. Indignation and guilt fight a brief battle within Craig’s chest at the sight of it. It forces him to relent just slightly when guilt nudges out ahead. “I’m not going to put a gun in my mouth, Tweek. I’m enough of a sinner without adding suicide to the list.”

Tweek nods. He doesn’t look any happier, but he at least looks less tense. “Good. I just want you to know you can always talk to me.”

Despite the clumsy intrusion into his personal bubble, and despite the clawing over old scars, Craig can’t help feeling a little warmer from that.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. And strangely, he _does._

“Good,” Tweek says again. He pauses to take a bite out of his toast, chewing as he regards Craig. “I’m working the early shift today so I’ll be back before you. Is there anything you want for dinner?”

Despite the almost-argument, Craig laughs. “How very domestic of you, Tweek,” he teases.

Tweek colours slightly. “Don’t be an ass. I enjoy cooking and frankly, I’m amazed you’re not obese, living on junk food.”

“Urgh,” Craig groans. “Low blow. I cook sometimes.”

“Microwaving a meal for one is not cooking, Craig. Have you seen the shit they put into that?” Tweek says. “Did you seriously never learn to cook?”

It’s Craig’s turn to colour slightly. “I didn’t have the time to learn.”

“Your mom didn’t teach you?” Tweek asks.

That makes Craig hesitate. They’ve never talked about his mom before. Luckily, Tweek reads his silence and switches track. He’s intuitive like that. Craig has to give him due credit.

“What about college?” Tweek says instead.

It’s safer ground. Craig still hasn’t shared too much of his past with Tweek, but this is at least a part of his life he knows vague details about.

“Thomas was the chef,” Craig admits. “We shared a dorm so he took care of that. Not that he was particularly good, but he at least knew the art to poaching an egg,” Craig replies, chuckling slightly at the memory.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long were you together for?” Tweek asks, looking genuinely interested.

“Almost three years,” Craig says. “And no, it didn’t end great and double-no, I don’t want to talk about that either.”

“Fair enough,” Tweek nods, although he looks a little disappointed that Craig’s stopped there. “Three years though… that sounds pretty serious. I’m sorry it ended badly. I can’t imagine what that’s like. I think my longest relationship was three _months._ ”

It’s Craig’s turn to be intrigued. “How come?” He asks, blunt.

Tweek shrugs, but his smile is genuine and bears no irritation at being asked. “I don’t know. I’ve never really actively sought a girlfriend out. I had crushes, sure, but I never really felt confident enough to ask a girl out so every girlfriend I _did_ have asked _me_ out.” He stops to take a slurp of coffee. “As to why it never lasted, well that was a combination of a lot of things but my parents usually put them off which was unavoidable since I lived with them. Or it was simply just me being _me_.”

“Why would that be an issue? You seem like Grade A boyfriend material considering how domesticated you are,” Craig says.

“Fuck you,” Tweek says good-naturedly. “I’m hardly ideal. Chronic anxiety, paranoia, and zero aspirations doesn’t make me the kind of guy you’d want to take home to the parents.”

“I’ve seen you possessed by a demon. It’s pretty easy to raise the bar from _that,”_ Craig jokes.

“I don’t think there’s many possession-survivors dating sites,” Tweek says with a resigned smile. “Maybe when I’m back on my feet, I’ll look again. Until then, I’m happy to look after _you_.”

Craig tries to ignore the way his heart jumps at that. Instead he diverts his eyes away like a coy teenager and distracts himself with his breakfast.

From somewhere deep within himself a voice protests weakly.

It’s nothing that prayer won’t fix though.

**

 

Tweek is still at work when Craig gets in.

Craig almost sinks at the realisation. It’s been a taxing day and he’s come to enjoy the smell of Tweek’s baking, or the sounds of him busying himself with house work. Oddly, the sense of life he provides to the small home is enjoyable. It’s something that Craig hadn't realised he likes so much- looks forward to it even-until he’s had a hard day like this one.

Nursing homes are a last bastion of faith nowadays, the older generations clinging to their beliefs in deceptively tight fistfuls.

He visits three different homes once a week each. The experience is different every time, ranging from sad, to frustrating to interesting. Some older people welcome him and his words with open arms, where others’ grumpy done-with-the-world views persist, despite Craig’s calling. For others, he’s not surprised that their faith gives them such comfort, stuffed away in a nursing home and regarded as a financial burden by their children.

Today’s visit had been a hard one. It’s as if the _gay_ word has been dogging him a day, ever since that first conversation with Tweek at the kitchen table. Younger Craig would have found that funny, would have made a joke about wanting to get drenched by the rain from the dark cloud that’s been following him. Older, more embittered Craig just feels like life is taunting him.

He’d pushed the morning’s conversation from his mind. The reminder of Stephen Stotch had left a bad feeling in his stomach. Always had since it had happened. He’d only officially entered the priesthood for three weeks before Stephen had put a shotgun in his mouth and blown his head clean off his shoulders. At the time, he’d barely known who the guy was, only that his son Leopold -or ‘Butters’ as he was known locally- was a charity worker who was well known in town. It had stuck with him though. Craig, newly appointed and struggling with his sexuality, had -at the time- carried a secret terror within his heart that somehow his appointment had been the final catalyst. The trigger that had pushed Stephen over the edge once and for all.

He’s never been able to fully get rid of that feeling, even though logic had eventually prevailed and soothed the fear. It still dwells deep inside him in the darkness, waiting for demons like Urobach to claw out.

As usual though, the Marsh family persist in giving him both head and heartache. Today’s drama came from Stan Marsh’s uncle, Jimbo. As a ‘Nam vet, Craig values what he has to say. It’s pitiful that a man who fought in a shitty war for his country has ended up shoved into a nursing home and essentially forgotten. As Craig understands it, Stan visits with relative frequency, but Jimbo’s brother -a well known local alcoholic- apparently never bothers to drop by.

Jimbo had lost his long-term lover before Craig had moved to this part of town. On better days, Jimbo regales Craig with tales of his time in the Army, sharing his views and experience with a story telling quality that catches Craig’s genuine interest. On bad days, he speaks of the man he loved, Ned. What makes those days bad is his bitterness. Old, forgotten and alone, Jimbo is understandably angry, but his fury often ends up directed towards Craig. He supposes it’s because he represents an institution. It’s one of the only ways that he can understand Jimbo’s frequent jump from the Army’s former ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy to how “Craig’s lot” can cover up sex scandals and still have the nerve to judge people like him.

Every time, Craig bites his tongue, barely holding back the desire to defend himself. To push back that he understands only too well, but he can’t. That’s not how his role works. He’s sure that Jimbo knows that though. _Sure_ he knows how twisted Craig really is and wants to delight in pulling it out of him.

He’s yet to succeed, but Craig always feels like he’s running away, every time he leaves.

His other visits had been much of a muchness after that. Bitter, old people, disregarded by their children as a burden. Most of them are just waiting to die. It’s a sad end to otherwise fruitful lives. He does what he can to offer words of guidance and comfort, but Jimbo’s angry accusations bite at his heels with every step he takes.

Hours later, Craig steps through his quiet home. The silence is oddly overwhelming where usually it is a comfort. It sets Craig even more on edge, so he busies himself with setting the coffee machine up, and chopping up broccoli for the guinea pigs.

The noisy wheeking and excited popping fills the stillness with a flurry of noise when he takes the treats through, but it soon settles again as they fall into munching. Craig watches them for a while, heart full of love. He’s entertained the notion that God might be a guinea pig a few times. Never aloud, for fear of being ex-communicated, but he read some stuff about Peruvian legends years ago and he remembers it tickling him.

With a great sigh, Craig heaves himself up into a stand and walks out of the room, turning to head up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he trades his cassock for black jeans and a t-shirt, tugging his old, beloved blue chullo into place for nothing more than the simple comfort of it.

More physically relaxed now, Craig casts a glance around his room for something to relax his mind as well. His eyes land on his wicker laundry basket and stay there. He nods to himself, stepping towards it and lifting it with two hands. Satisfied, he turns and heads back downstairs, heading to his tiny utility room.

Upon reaching the bottom step, Craig pauses, eyeing up the haphazard pile of laundry that Tweek keeps squashed out of the way in a trash bag. For a moment Craig contemplates doing Tweek’s laundry too, wondering if it’s too forward of him. After consideration though, taking into account Tweek’s cooking and cleaning for them both, Craig shrugs and heads over to the bag.

He leans down to upend it, spilling laundry out onto the floor. It’s a pitiful amount, reflective of the fact that Tweek is still being forced to be careful with money. The thought makes Craig frown as he fingers through what’s there, separating the darks from the lights. Once done, he scoops the darks up in one arm, clutching them to his chest and heading to his washing machine.

As he walks the short distance, a stray thought hits him. He realises, holding Tweek’s clothes as he is, that he’s catching the scent of him from Tweek’s dirty clothes as he walks. It’s not a bad scent; the faint musk of sweat, deep and masculine, coupled with coffee and a fainter-still whiff of cleaning product.

It takes him a belated moment to realise that he’s stopped walking, neck cranes towards the clothes in his arms. His cheeks flood with colour at the realisation that the scent is piquing his interest in a very primitive way.

He jerks his head back up, blushing like a teenager and feeling a little sick with himself. He ends up almost dropping the clothes, which makes him clutch them tighter to himself. He forces himself on to the washing machine, dumping Tweek’s clothes in as if they’re burning, followed by his own clothes. He slams the door shut, pours in the powder and jabs the button.

The machine rumbles into life. For a moment, Craig grips it, leaning slightly over it. He takes a breath and forces his mind to mentally recite scriptures in an attempt to drown out the traitorous, almost gleeful taunts that rise from the darkest places of himself.

Stray thoughts are his greatest enemy. They test his purity and dedication to God almost daily. An attractive man in his church, a flirty cashier, increasingly sexual advertising, memories of college… so many things challenge him every waking moment. He prides himself for his self-awareness and lightning-fast rebuttal. It’s part of the reason why isolating himself was safe: fewer temptations and rogue thoughts.

He’s been doing just fine with Tweek. He acknowledges that he finds him charmingly attractive, but his sense of duty of care has been too strong to allow for thoughts of anything other than the pure. The proximity of having another man in the intimate space of his home has concerned him from time to time, but he’s an adult. He knows himself, knows he’s not some mad, insatiable beast.

It’s why he’s so disappointed with himself _now_. Here he is, regressed to animal-like behaviour, _sniffing_ and feeling responsive interest in his balls. It’s disgusting and disgraceful and undermines everything he’s achieved.

Not knowing what else to do, Craig gets to his knees there and then, his old washing machine clattering and moaning next to him. He clasps his hands tightly together and prays for guidance.

He isn’t sure he gets any answer.

**

 

By the time Tweek returns from work, Craig is feeling a little more like himself.

Prayer and a hot shower do a lot to improve his mood, although he still finds himself a little apprehensive when Tweek comes home. His fears are allayed when Tweek lifts a couple of pizza boxes over his head triumphantly.

“I got a little bonus today, so I thought _fuck it,_ let’s have pizza!” He grins, dropping the pizza onto the coffee table.

“Can’t argue that,” Craig agrees, already reaching into a box for a slice of the margarita.

Tweek flops onto the sofa with practiced ease, snatching up his own slice and chasing gooey cheese as it tries to escape.

Without waiting to be prompted, Craig flicks the television on and immediately starts surfing through the channels, looking for something trashy to watch.

All of a sudden, Tweek laughs, drawing Craig’s attention away from the TV.

“I just realised that I haven’t hung out, eating pizza with a friend like this in years,” he explains at Craig’s interest.

Craig pauses to consider the slice he’s holding to his mouth. “No,” he says. “Me either. Since college, probably?”

“That long?” Tweek says, although there’s no judgement in his voice. “Well I’m glad to re-introduce you to it.”

Craig snorts softly. “It’s not exactly like it used to be. No beer and dope for one.”

“Dope?” Tweek laughs, teasing. “So hardcore.”

“Shut up,” Craig says.

“Still,” Tweek says. “We used to get the X-Box out and have Halo tournaments. Although, honestly I always preferred the PlayStation.”

Craig hums in thought. After a moment, he tosses his slice back into the box and rises to his feet. At Tweek’s perplexed expression he says: “Wait here,” and turns to head up the stairs.

When he reaches his bedroom he turns to the closet in the corner, dropping to a kneel as he pulls it open. He goes in, hands first, casting about until he finds a beaten-up old box that feels the right shape. Curling his fingers around it, he pulls it out, blowing the dust away and wiping it down with his hand.

His old PlayStation 3. Once upon a time he’d loved this thing. It had accompanied him through hazy days of staying up until four, kissing lazily on the sofa, kicking Token and Jimmy’s asses at FIFA. It had seen his worst days too. Days where he’d sat in a drunken stupor, staring at the television screen and wondering why he didn’t die too.

He’d loved this piece of crap, but over the years it had been used less and less until, finally, it had faded into obscurity. Craig hadn’t even bothered unpacking it since he moved to this place. Games, he’d learnt, just weren’t as fun without someone there to share them with. All they did was make him feel lonelier.

“C’mon, baby. Let’s give you some love,” he says, amused by the sudden affection he’s feeling for an inanimate object. He hoists it into his arms and heads back downstairs.

When Tweek looks up from the TV and positively _lights up_ , Craig thinks that hunting it out was definitely worth it.

“Lucky for us, I think I downloaded a few games,” Craig says, setting it onto the floor in front of the TV and digging it out of the box. He reaches around for the HDMI lead plugged into his DVD player and sticks it into the PlayStation. He plugs it in and flicks over the source channel. His heart swells a little bit as the start-up screen bursts into view.

He tosses a controller to Tweek, then picks one up himself.

“Power in them is probably shot, but let’s see what I have—”

“ _Dude!”_ Tweek shouts, cutting him off. “You’ve got Assassin’s Creed! I _loved_ that game, man.”

Shrugging, Craig punches X and starts it up, unable to help smiling at the excitement in Tweek’s voice. A stray thought hits him suddenly and his smile drops a bit.

“Uh, sorry,” He says. “It’s a lame ass game night without any beer.”

Tweek shoots him a soft, understanding sort of look. Then he smiles suddenly, mischievous. “Hey, look I’m sorry that you can’t blame sucking on being drunk, but you gotta accept the truth: lameness comes from within.”

“How very profound of you,” Craig says in a dry voice. His smile, however, has perked back up at Tweek’s extremely successful attempt to lighten the mood.

They spend the next few hours blitzing their way through Assassin’s Creed missions, interspacing it with long romps in the dusty countryside, upsetting guards. They laugh at their character tackling old grannies, and swear when one too many guards run them through. They don’t stop that night, playing through until the small hours. Somehow though, despite his early rise being only scant hours away, Craig doesn’t mind.

It’s honestly the most fun he’s had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sincerely sorry for the delay. Too much work, and too much Pokémon Go.
> 
> Longer chapter to make up for it. And just saying that the rating will go up next chapter..


	10. Chapter 9

The first thing he’s aware of is a hand toying with the curls of his pubic hair, nails scratching lightly through them, carving a playful path.

The fog-like veil of sleep lifts slowly, seeping out of his relaxed muscles like he’s a deflating balloon losing the last of its air.

“Mmmm,” he hums in delight, curling his toes as fingertips brush through thick hair to rub at sensitive skin beneath. “Good morning to you too.”

Behind him, Thomas laughs and bows his head to drop a kiss to the curve of Craig’s shoulder. “Morning -fucking asshole- m- happy birthday.”

Craig lets out a deep, rumbly laugh, his voice still wrapped in sleep. “Stop flattering me. You know dirty talk turns me on.”

Thomas laughs again, used to Craig making light of his Tourette’s by now. He paints Craig’s back with warmth from where they’re plastered together. Craig can feel the hot length of Thomas’ morning wood pressed against the curve of his ass and not-so-subtly presses back against it.

“Stop that,” Thomas chides. His hand finally moves lower, fondling Craig’s own morning glory with a teasing stroke.

“Or what?” Craig replies with a smile and a pleased sigh.

“Because we have -cocksucker- class soon and even you can’t cum that fast from anal,” Thomas teases good naturedly.

“First of all, what makes you think _I_ don’t want to fuck _you_?” Craig chuckles. “Second of all, stop playing and jerk me, dude.”

“Because it’s your birthday and you love being a lazy shit on your birthday,” Thomas laughs, dropping a line of wet kisses up the arch of his neck. He pauses to pull Craig’s earlobe between his teeth, pressing just hard enough to leave dimples. “Luckily for you, I like -cocksucker, shit!- I like to indulge you.”

“You also like me sucking cock,” Craig grins, rolling over to face him.

Thomas looks down on him, features soft in the early morning light filtering through the blinds. “Yeah, I really do. But since you’re the birthday boy, allow me.”

There’s no preamble. Thomas sits up and tugs the sheets off, tossing them towards the base of their bed and moving down Craig’s body with explicit purpose. He curls his fingers in the waistband of Craig’s boxer shorts, tugging them down and off, snorting in amusement as Craig makes a show of letting his knees flop open.

“You’re an asshole,” Thomas says, smiling.

“Careful. Your Tourette’s is out of control this morning,” Craig grins.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are, Craig,” Thomas shoots back, shifting to crouch between his legs. He circles a hand around Craig’s semi and leans down to start running his tongue over it, which does wonders for shutting him up.

Skill and experience leads Thomas to getting him hard in no real time, his prick swelling and lifting with each coy lick and kiss. By the time he’s panting, Thomas has moved on to running kisses up and down the shaft, purposefully neglecting his reddened tip.

Cursing under his breath, Craig reaches lower, burying his hand in blond strands and using his grip to guide Thomas’ mouth where the fucker knows he wants it.

Thomas laughs quietly but obliges, moving his lips to press a peck to Craig’s cockhead. It’s little more than a chaste smudge of lips.

“Stop fucking around and blow me,” Craig sighs.

“Well I have to draw it out,” Thomas laughs. “It’d be over in two minutes otherwise.”

“Oh fuck off,” Craig says without any heat. “It’s my birthday.”

“Mmhmm,” Thomas hums. He takes pity though, parting his lips and sinking Craig’s dick partway into his mouth. He curls his fist around the shaft, jerking as he slathers the head with his tongue until it’s slick and glistening.

Heaven, Craig thinks as he tosses his head back. This must be what heaven feels like: warm, wet and soft encasing his slowly throbbing dick. His heart thuds in his tip, coaxed and urged on by licks and oh- _oh_. There’s the suction, pulling his very being out through his dick, the dirty, slurpy sounds providing a sensual soundtrack as Thomas’ head begins to bob.

He curls his hand in that mop of blond, gripping tighter, pulling and tugging and urging. More. _Faster_. He wants to fuck that mouth, streak his face with cum, make him a mess. He gasps at the thought, a ripple of heat running through him that makes his cock twitch in agreement. He splays his free hand upon his chest, pricked with sweat and heaving for lost breath, feeling as his heart thuds under his palm. Waves of hunger and want roar and surge through him, growing more and more powerful until they threaten to break.

His hand spasms, tightens in blond strands. His hips jerk once, twice, three times before he explodes, fucking his orgasm into that wonderful, beautiful mouth. A thumb skirts over his balls, making him jerk again, sensitive and shuddering.

Collapsing back and gasping for breath, Craig lies helpless as he rides the wave. He’s dimly aware of breezy laugher and soft kisses being peppered across his belly and higher to his chest. Dragging in a sigh, Craig glances down and arches an eyebrow, letting his hand slip free of blond locks.

“What did I say about it all being over in two minutes?” Tweek laughs, lying his chin against Craig’s chest. He has a streak of cum painted across his cheek which causes a nasty, little swell of possession stir in Craig’s chest. He wants to lick it off. He wants to take a photo. He _wants_.

“Fuck,” Craig groans, keeping those thoughts to himself. “I wanted to last longer.”

“Well,” Tweek smiles coyly. “We’ve got all day birthday boy.”

 

**

 

Craig wakes with a start. For a long moment he stares at the ceiling, frowning at the unfamiliarity of it. Then realisation that this is not his college dorm sets in. It’s a painful thought, but it’s almost welcome compared to the surge of guilt that follows.

He’s aware that he’s shot a load into his pants as quickly as he remembers where he is.

It’s annoying, for the most part. Not that it happens much these days. His teenage years are well behind him, and years of abstinence have forced his body into a reluctant hibernation. Wet dreams, though natural, are blissfully few and far between, and lack of knowing consent means that he’s not committed a mortal sin. On usual mornings when his dreams have wandered from the righteous path he curses, washes himself off, does the laundry and prays for guidance, forcefully rejecting the straying thoughts that his dreams have prompted.

This morning, however isn’t usual. His dreams aren’t memories poking and prodding at his devotion to God. No. This time it’s worse. Far worse.

He lifts his hand, rubbing his fingers through his hair roughly. He pauses, curling his hand into a fist and tugging hard on impulse, ripping strands out. It’s not enough. The physical pain isn’t enough to smother the wave of fury that hits him. It’s thick and hot and tastes like blood and ash.

He throws himself into a sitting position, arm flying out for the small bin he has placed next to his bed. His fingers curl around the rim on first impact and reflexively tug it towards himself just in time to catch the first hot load of vomit that pours from his mouth. He hurls again, body shuddering with the effort, filling the bin with a disgusting splat.

His eyes prick with tears as he spits out the last mouthful of bile. For a heart-stopping moment, all he wants to do is let go. Bawl over how shitty and unfair life is. Sob over how hard God’s tests are. He wants to cry over lost opportunities and grieve for people he’ll never be able to love again.

Most of all though, he wants to weep over the disgusting piece of shit he still is. Being a priest hasn’t fixed any of what’s fundamentally wrong with him. He’s still as selfish and dirty as he ever was, dreaming about fucking the man he’s opened his home to. A man who’s vulnerable and alone, reliant on a crappy priest who dreams lustfully of him.

He’s sick. Sick and dirty and just as base as ever. The same hateful existence as always.

Only three tears manage to slip free before Craig hardens. Self-pity is too self-indulgent. He shoves the bin to one side and gets up, dropping to his knees next to his bed.

Clasping his hands together and bowing his head, with a wad of cum in his pants and the taste of puke in his mouth, Craig prays.

 

**

He’s late when he finally makes his way out of the bathroom, but he barely cares. He knows it’s bad that he doesn’t, but the thought is vague and dreamy.

His hopes of avoiding Tweek are dashed when he steps into the living area and spots Tweek sitting at the kitchen table.

“Hey! You’re late-” Tweek smiles, swivelling his head to get a look at him. “Whoa, Craig are you sick? You don’t look too good!” He springs to his feet and heads over to stand in front of Craig, hands moving to check his temperature.

Unable to help himself, Craig flinches away from his touch. “I’m fine,” he says in a gravelly voice. Swerving around Tweek, he moves to snatch up a piece of toast. It’s unbuttered, which suits Craig just fine. He doesn’t deserve luxuries and nice things. All he’s got to do is keep his useless sack of meat alive.

“You don’t seem it,” Tweek says, voice soft. He moves to take a seat again, brow creased with concern.

Craig drags his eyes away. He doesn’t deserve to look at Tweek either. Not after what his selfish mind reduced him to. A hole for fucking. Jesus Christ, Tweek’s been through enough already. Saved from a demon, only to fall prey to the mind of someone who’s supposed to have a duty of care.

Another hot wave of anger flows through him. It’s enough to make him tear into his toast with a vicious bite. It’s not fair to subject Tweek to his disgusting thoughts, but the other option is to kick him out back onto the street. Doing that just because he’s weak feels even worse than fooling the poor man into thinking that Craig is decent.

The clatter of the mailbox draws his attention. Dimly, he notices that Tweek’s head swings around too.

“Um, I’ll get it,” Tweek says, jumping up. Craig doesn’t blame him for wanting to get away, watching as he darts towards the front door.

Craig’s still forcing dry toast down his sore throat when Tweek returns with a small bundle.

“It’s all for you,” Tweek says, placing the pile on the table. “One looks like a card?”

At the questioning tone, Craig dares a glance. Sure enough, a red envelope peeks out from amongst the various bills and offers.

If Craig had the energy to care, he’d smile at that. Good, old Token. They barely speak these days, but he never forgets.

He takes a slug of coffee, wincing at the burn in his throat. Then he moves to head out.

“Are you gonna open the card?” Tweek asks, perplexed.

“No,” Craig responds.

“Oh,” Tweek mutters. After a hesitation that Craig can hear rather than see, Tweek gets up and heads over to where Craig is stooped and slipping into his shoes. “Craig… you really don’t look good. Maybe you should stay home.”

The care in Tweek’s voice almost chokes him. He looks away, feeling wholly undeserving of it. “I’m okay,” he lies in a quiet voice. “Have a good day at work.”

Without waiting for an answer, Craig lurches through the front door, leaving a worried, confused Tweek behind him.

 

**

 

His mood doesn’t improve throughout the day. In fact, he just feels worse as the hours drag by.

If anyone notices that he’s off colour, they don’t say so, treating him with the same friendly respect as always. Somehow that hurts worse though: knowing that they don’t see what he’s really like underneath it all.

He makes it to quarter to three before he throws the towel in. His two o’clock with a local charity had been a mess with him probably doing more harm than good by showing up. He’s barely spoken to anyone and had been totally unable to keep how much he didn’t want to be there off his face.

It’s another poor display from a poor priest, but he’s honestly struggling to care. That in itself is worse than feeling bad about it.

Craig leaves the charity and gets into his car, pulling his phone out as he sinks into the seat. Then he makes a quick call to his next appointment and cancels it. He doesn’t make excuses, and he doesn’t lie. He’s done enough shit today without adding lies to the list.

When he’s done, Craig tosses his phone into the passenger seat and sets off. Cars and streets pass without him having any real idea of where he’s driving. It’s like he’s switched off every thinking part of his brain that isn’t related to driving, and honestly he’s okay with that.

Eventually, he pulls up. It’s half three at this point. Kids are wondering around after school, exuberant and full of promise. They catch Craig’s attention and he watches them silently, the priestly side of him wishing the best for them, and the wretched side of him resenting every youthful step towards the future they take.

Eventually, one kid looks up and notices his stare. Her face sours and she whispers at her friend. It helps Craig to snap his attention away, images of a burly father appearing at his window and accusing him of being a pervert fresh in his mind.

And how would he explain that one? _I’m sorry, sir. I am a pervert, but I prefer vulnerable guys with nowhere to go over teenage girls._

The thought leads Craig to release a ragged sigh. He reaches for his cigarettes and swears when he sees he only has four left. He takes one out anyway, tapping it twice and placing it between his lips, lighting it with his old lighter.

He studies the carton as the smoke starts to fill his car like some cheap visual effects at a high school dance. His eyes take in long, complex names that once upon a time, he’d had a fair understanding of. But like so many other things, the unused knowledge has shrivelled up and died. He mourns it briefly. Realises with some sadness that he can hardly remember how to work out simple velocity problems.

In the smoky murk of his car, Craig takes an indulgent moment to wish he could just disappear into the fog. He isn’t sure that God will care too much about a guy vanishing from the world, slipping through the cracks of reality and being obliterated in the void between. Maybe then he’d be as infinite as his atoms, witnessing the deaths of stars and the subsequent birth of new ones from the ashes left behind.

Or maybe he’s just being a self-indulgent old fag with delusions of grandeur. He’s a struggling priest, big wow. Like they’re not ten a penny.

Stubbing his cigarette out, Craig starts the car up again. He switches off once more as he drives, absentmindedly wafting thick tendrils of smoke out of the window. His presence is pollution, he thinks with a sardonic smile. I’m a cancer.

It’s with that nasty, little thought that he pulls up outside a bar. It’s the one round the corner from the church, he notes absently. He notices it every morning when he goes out, and every evening when he comes home.

 _‘Just one won’t hurt,’_ an insidious, little voice whispers from the darkest depths of his mind. It’s trying to sound alluring, but it just sounds like a taunt, as foul as the voice that fell from Tweek’s lips precious few weeks ago. _Just one._

But it’s never just one. Just one becomes two and two becomes waking up to a puke bucket and a pounding head and a thirst for another drink.

“You’re an alcoholic,” Craig reminds himself in a voice that sounds as raw as his feelings. The silence he receives tells him that his car cares as little as life seems to.

The dark, lizard like parts of his mind don’t recoil in disgust at the admission. They seize on it, crowing victoriously. ‘ _Yes,’_ they urge him. ‘ _Yes. You are, so give in. Life is shitty. No one loves you, Craig. You have no one and nothing. God certainly doesn’t love you. Where is He now? Why can you never feel him?’_

I did, Craig thinks weakly. I felt Him.

' _And He led you to the man you want to fuck. The man you want to suck and slurp and squelch with-’_

Stop it, Craig thinks. To his mild horror he can feel his dick stirring, growing obscenely hard from his obscene thoughts.

He looks up again, eyes fixed on the letters above the door. He drinks each one in, desperately stalling his thoughts.

God help him. He wants a drink so badly he can’t think. _Needs_ it. Needs to chase away thoughts out of his over-crowded mind.

He clasps his hands together, partly to pray. Mostly it’s to keep his hand from reaching for the door handle. Craig bows his head and brings his hands to his chest, pressing them into the skin and fantasising briefly that he can crush the bones of his ribs with them.

Then, for the briefest second, Craig allows himself to think of Tweek. Thinks of how sad he’d look if he could see Craig now. No judgement or disgust. Tweek is too good for that. A pure soul. One that had been so worth saving, despite Craig’s own foulness.

Despite being his greatest weakness in that moment, Craig also finds a strange strength in his thoughts of Tweek.

That strength blossoms within him, a fragile, beautiful thing in a desert of squalor and shit. Craig envisions himself cupping his hands around it, nurturing it. He does it through prayer, flowing melodically from his lips in a constant stream, barely pausing for breath despite his lungs being shot from years of cigarettes.

He stays there, parked in a bar parking lot for two hours before he finds the strength to drive away.

 

**

 

“Craig!” Tweek explodes the moment Craig steps into his house. “Why didn’t you tell me- Jesus, man. Are you okay?”

Craig can’t bring himself to lie and say he’s okay, so he shrugs instead.

“I knew you were sick this morning. Come and sit down,” Tweek says, gentle. He steps up to Craig’s side and takes his arm, carefully steering him into the living room. He doesn’t comment on the reek of smoke that Craig must be emanating, which Craig is suddenly very self conscious of, even if he can’t smell it himself.

The touch burns him like cigarettes. Like the way it fills his lungs with fire and leaves him breathless. He wants to lean into it. To soak it through the thin barrier of his skin.

Thoughts of Tweek’s touch are startled away when he discovers Father Maxi sitting on his sofa. It makes his stomach do an uncomfortable flop as he’s seized by the ludicrous thought that Father Maxi _knows_ about his dirty, dark thoughts.

His fears are allayed when Father Maxi gives him a look of fatherly concern over his tea. “Goodness, Craig,” he says. “You don’t look well. Come and sit down.”

“I’ll grab you a coffee,” Tweek says, guiding Craig to his armchair.

Craig tenses as soon as Tweek slips out of the toon, bracing himself for the accusatory ‘ _you never told me_ yourself _Tweek was living here. I had to hear it from Tweek.’_

It doesn’t come. Instead, Father Maxi studies him with a stern, worried sort of look.

“How are you doing, son?”

“Uh,” Craig starts. This man knows him too well. Lying won’t work. It never has. “Today hasn’t been… great.”

Father Maxi nods. “That’s a shame.”

Further conversation is stalled by Tweek’s return. He gently hands Craig a mug, and Craig finds himself utterly unable to reign in the little smile of thanks that spreads to his lips.

“Craig,” Tweek says as he sits. His tone is lightly scolding. “Why didn’t you _say_ it was your birthday today?”

“I didn’t think it was important,” Craig says softly, bringing his mug up to blow away steam.

“You didn’t-” Tweek breaks off to make a frustrated noise. “Is he always like this, Father?”

Father Maxi chuckles softly in response. “As long as I’ve known him.”

“I’m thirty-two,” Craig sighs. “It’s not like I need balloon animals and party music. I just didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Well it’s a big deal to _me,_ ” Tweek insists. “It’s your _birthday_ , man. You deserve at least a _little_ fuss.”

“Now that I can agree with,” Father Maxi says in a warm voice.

Craig looks up from his coffee, heart twisting painfully at the thought of people giving a shit. Caring. About _him_.

He jerks his eyes away, blinking back the heavy feeling in his chest.

“You don’t have to…” What? He isn’t sure what he’s trying to say. He lets the thought trail off. No one pushes him to finish it.

“I’m glad Father Maxi came by,” Tweek says after a pause. “If I’d missed it, I would’ve felt awful.”

Father Maxi slips a red envelope across Craig’s ugly coffee table. Craig eyes it, lips pursed at the rim of his mug. After a long hesitation he rests the mug on the arm of the chair and reaches out for it. He opens it with a soft sigh, dropping the card into his waiting palm. He scans through it for courtesy’s sake and places it back down flat on its back.

“Thank you,” he says. He means it too. It’s a shitty card, but it’s proof that someone thought about him. Someone cares enough.

Tweek makes a distressed little twitter and leans down to place it upright. “There, that’s better,” he says. Then he picks up another envelope. From the full address on it, Craig guesses that it’s the one from this morning. “Um,” Tweek says, offering it out to him. “I’m so sorry I don’t have one. I definitely will next year.”

 _Next year_. The thought is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

To distract himself from such thoughts, Craig rips the envelope open. Another birthday card falls out and, despite his day, despite _everything_ , Craig smiles.

“Is that from your friend Token?” Father Maxi asks.

Craig nods, placing the card down neatly next to the other card. “Yeah.”

“Um,” Tweek breaks in. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you tell me about him?”

Craig glances over at him. Tweek is wearing an expression of such hope that Craig feels his stomach twist with guilt. He’s clearly so desperate to learn about Craig, and Craig persistently gives him nothing.

Honestly though, Craig isn’t sure Tweek would like what he finds.

Regardless though, despite everything, Craig shifts in his seat, physically opening up before his words do the same. “We met in high school and were sort of friends, but then we went to the same college and I guess…” Craig trails off, finding the right words. “He was studying law and I was studying astronomy. We ended up in the same dorm building and the familiarity of seeing his face just led me towards gravitating towards him. I’m pretty sure he felt the same way because we ended up growing closer at college. That’s why I think of him as my college friend rather than my childhood friend.”

“He sounds like a good guy. He must be if he always remembers your birthday,” Tweek says kindly.

Craig nods at that. “Yeah. We don’t talk everyday or anything, but he’s a bit of a mother hen, much as he’d deny it. He always looked out for me- he even got me dating back then.”

“Oh so, he knew about-” Tweek breaks off, glancing at Father Maxi.

“It’s okay, he knows about Thomas. Everyone did back then. I never hid what I was-” _what I still am_ , his traitorous thoughts crow- “In fact, Token set me and Thomas up, since my high school dating life had been a disaster.”

Tweek laughs at that. “Seriously?”

Craig grins in response. “You have no idea. When I came out, I let the whole school know. I mean, I owned that shit, but then it led me to dating around a lot. Not sleeping around I hasten to add, but I dated a lot and found myself bored of the poor fuckers in the first ten minutes.” Craig can’t help smiling at the memory of his youthful folly, especially not when Tweek laughs. He knows he should be ashamed of his former transgressions against God, and he really tries to be. But honestly, he had a lot of fun back then. No matter how much he’s supposed to be ashamed of it, he looks back on it with fondness.

He locked that Craig Tucker away in a drawer long ago, but he’s not entirely sure that he totally faded away.

Shaking himself free of the thought, Craig settles into an evening that feels better than the day. The need to drink lessens (it never really goes away), feeling less like a desperate throb, and more like a dull ache.

As they talk, his heart feels lighter again. He’s not okay with himself (when is he ever?) but, if pushed, he has to admit that maybe he’s a tiny bit glad that he’s celebrating his birthday this year.

Time passes more quickly and pleasantly that evening. Conversation flows easily, with Tweek taking advantage of Craig’s improved mood to ask for more funny stories about his past. For once, Craig obliges him and it doesn’t take him long to start smiling again. When Tweek jumps up to fetch the last-minute birthday cake he’s baked, Craig can’t help but laugh and enjoy the way he dances towards the kitchen. He waits, watching the empty doorway that Tweek disappeared into. Craning his neck, he listens to the clink and crash of dropped cutlery, smirking when he hears a soft curse.

It’s so like Tweek. Life, noise, energy… it just flows from him and permeates Craig’s home like nothing else before him.

When Tweek finally brings the cake out it’s as sloppy and unpolished as the rest of his baking, but Craig already knows that it’s going to taste heavenly. Tweek cuts a slab off and passes it to Craig with a bright smile.

“For the birthday boy,” he teases. “If I’d had more time I would’ve bought you candles. Not sure they’d fit though.”

“Hey,” Craig says, unable to help grinning, meeting Tweek’s gaze and holding it. He can even feel his eyes crinkle at the amusement he feels. “Enough of that.”

Tweek only laughs in response, moving on to cut a slice for Father Maxi and then himself.

It isn’t until they’re all a slice of cake down each that Craig notices that Father Maxi has been a little quieter than usual. He catches the man’s eye, but gets a slight shake of the head instead. It makes Craig frown, but he puts it to the back of his mind, eyes returning to Tweek.

Father Maxi doesn’t stay for much longer after that. He finishes his tea and stands abruptly, startling Craig’s attention away from Tweek’s current story.

“Sorry, son. I didn’t mean to make you jump like that,” Father Maxi says, apologetic.

Craig shrugs, a bit embarrassed by his melodramatic response. “It’s fine. You heading off?”

“Yes, I need to be up at four,” Father Maxi says, neatening himself up.

“You could always stay over?” Craig offers. “I can crash in here with Tweek?”

“No,” Father Maxi says with a shake of his head. “It’s honestly fine. You enjoy the rest of your birthday, Craig.”

Craig pulls himself up from his ugly armchair. “I’ll walk you out,” Craig says, heading towards the door.

Father Maxi nods, taking his coat back from Craig and pulling it on. Then, without any warning, he turns around and pulls Craig into a hug.

Craig stiffens in his grip. The feeling is foreign and takes him utterly by surprise. It takes a moment for muscle memory to step in and return the hug, which is still a moment before his mind follows.

“I’m always here if you need me, Craig,” Father Maxi says quietly. Before Craig can ask him what he means, Father Maxi squeezes him and says: “Happy birthday, son.”

“Yeah,” Craig says dumbly. “Um. Thanks. I mean it.” And he _does_ mean it. He’s not sure how he would’ve got through the night with prayer alone. It doesn’t reflect well on his status as a priest, but standing here feeling something so strong from just a hug, Craig has to relent that even he is only human.

“I’ll call you over the next couple of days,” Father Maxi says, pulling back.

“Okay?” Craig says, a bit bemused.

Father Maxi doesn’t expand, calling out a goodbye to Tweek and heading out.

Turning back, Craig returns to his armchair, sitting in it with a heavy sigh.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Tweek says, pulling his thin legs up onto the sofa.

“Hmm,” Craig hums, trying to order them. “Today ended up better than I thought,” he admits, realising as he says it that it’s true.

Tweek smiles at that. “That’s good,” He says. For a moment Craig thinks he’s going to press for the reason why his day wasn’t great, but instead he lets out a comical sigh. “You’re useless though.”

“Huh?” Craig says, surprised.

“If you didn’t want to outright tell me that today is your birthday, you could have at least dropped heavy hints. If Father Maxi hadn’t come round I would’ve had no idea!” Tweek admonishes.

“Sorry,” Craig says, ducking his head slightly, even though he has no reason to feel ashamed. “It just didn’t seem important.”

Tweek’s expression grows mildly outraged before he seems to take a breath and soften all over. “Craig…” He starts, sounding helpless. Sad even. “Even if it isn’t important to you -and it should be- it’s important to _me._  You’re my friend. You’ve given me so much. The least I can do is celebrate your birthday with you.”

“You’re right,” Craig says, although he still doesn’t fully get what the big deal is. “I should have at least let you know when my birthday is. It’s the kind of normal shit people know about each other, right?”

Tweek smiles in response. “Yeah. Normal shit. You know mine from looking at my case file but you know it, at least.”

Craig outright laughs at that. “Fair point. I don't think anything about our relationship is _normal_.”

That makes Tweek grin. “ _Normal_ is for boring people. I’d rather be vaguely interesting.”

“Hey, I _like_ boring,” Craig argues.

“I must have really torn shit up for you then!” Tweek says, still grinning.

Craig pauses to consider that. It’s not incorrect- Tweek has stormed into his life and thrown it into absolute chaos. His presence has invoked the first longings for sexual intimacy in years, and nearly driven him back to drink. And still, despite everything… it’s the first time in a long time Craig has looked forward to coming home. To seeing what’s for dinner. To hearing about someone else’s day. To basking in the vibrancy of life once more.

“You have, but I probably needed it,” Craig admits in a soft voice.

Tweek gives him a moment, looking so wonderfully understanding that Craig has to look away. “You did,” he says after some time has ticked by. “The shit you were eating, you’d’ve had a heart attack by the age of forty-five.”

Unable to help himself, Craig laughs at that. “Yeah well, God must have sent you to me.”

“Huh, sorta like your own guardian angel,” Tweek grins.

“Calm down, asshole,” Craig smiles, reaching out to grab the discarded plates. “You’re not _that_ cherubic _.”_

“I so am,” Tweek says, rising to his feet and collecting the plates first. “In fact, I’m even going to tidy up, since you’re the birthday boy.”

Craig hums at that, feeling exhausted suddenly. It’s not like him to feel emotionally drained, but after a day like today, being so damned _close_ to giving it all up-

He swiftly ends that trail of thought, shivering with revulsion. Even his shudder is dulled though, weariness falling over him like a veil.

“You alright?” Tweek says.

Craig startles back into full awareness, realising that he must have been somewhere else entirely, because somehow Tweek has totally cleared off the coffee table.

“Craig?” Tweek says with a scowl, although there’s no heat behind it.

“Yeah,” Craig says, unsure anymore whether it’s a lie. He probably is. Alright, that is.

Probably.

“Okay,” Tweek says, although he looks utterly disbelieving. “Well make sure you get plenty of rest. You don’t take enough breaks.”

“God’s work is never done,” Craig says. He tries his best to sound dry, but the effect is ruined by the huge yawn that erupts its way out of him.

“Okay well, God can let you rest _sometimes_ , I think,” Tweek says.

“If that’s a hint I should get to bed, it’s been received,” Craig says, hoisting himself up to his feet. “I’m inclined to agree too.”

If he’s about to say more, it’s forgotten the moment that Tweek’s body collides with his own. He makes a surprised noise at the sudden sensation of being hugged, Tweek’s arms wrapping around his rib cage. Before he can even stop to think about it, Craig’s arms come up to return the hug.

By the time thought catches up, it’s too late to break free. Tweek’s slightly smaller form feels wonderful pressed against his chest. The warmth that Tweek radiates feels like it’s permeating into Craig, past his skin and into his heart and lungs. For a second he feels his breath catch and he can’t help letting his eyes slide closed.

When he stops to think about it, he isn’t sure how long it’s been since he’s been hugged. To be hugged twice in such a short time... it makes something long forgotten inside him stir  

Craig stands still, silently holding on to Tweek. A small squeeze jolts him from his stupor, startling him into dropping his arms and abruptly pulling away. Even with space between them though, he still feels residual warmth sitting within his chest, encaged by his ribs.

“Thank you, Tweek,” Craig says, his voice coming out as little more than a whisper.

Tweek gives him a warm smile in response. “Hey, man. It’s seriously no problem. I just wish I could’ve got you something, or made a proper effort or something.”

“You made me a cake, Tweek. That’s more than I’ve had in years.”

Tweek looks briefly sad at that. Then he bites his lip. “Craig can I ask you something?”

Craig has a good idea what he wants to ask. Slowly, he nods. “I can’t really say no to that, can I?” He jokes lamely. Tweek gives him a fleeting quirk of his lips for the effort.

“How come you didn’t get anything from your parents? You never really speak about them. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. I know what it’s like to have selfish parents-” Tweek breaks off from his train of thought. “Not that I’m assuming I know what you’ve been through, o-or trivialising it- God, sorry! Why did I say that!”

“Tweek,” Craig cuts in, gentle. “It’s okay. I appreciate where you’re coming from.” He pauses, chewing his lip as his stomach flips uncomfortably. “It’s not that, okay? Crappy parents isn’t the issue but I-” his throat closes up suddenly. He’s not sure he can carry on speaking so he trails off.

Tweek regards him with a soft, understanding expression. “Hey, it’s your birthday. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t wanna.”

Craig feels grateful for that. Compelled by something almost foreign, he reaches out to lay a hand on Tweek’s shoulder, squeezing gently in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

“Not yet, okay? I will soon just… not yet,” Craig says. To his own ears, his attempt sounds more like a pathetic plea.

Tweek nods, his expression still patient and kind. Craig thinks it makes him look rather lovely, but he manages to grab that rogue thought and stuff it down into the darkest depths before it can linger.

“Get to bed,” Tweek says, breaking the heavy air. “I’ll tidy up down here. And maybe think about having a day off for once. You look better than you did, but you could still do with a rest every now and again.”

Craig nods, unable to argue. He won’t have tomorrow off, but it really is nice to bask in the warmth of being cared for, even if it’s horribly self-indulgent.

When he climbs into bed, he thinks that he’s going to toss and turn all night. That he’ll fixate on that drink he didn’t have, that he’ll think of Tweek In disgraceful ways, that he’ll mourn loved ones and ask God again why things are like this.

Instead, he’s gone as soon as his head hits the pillow, full of birthday cake and warmth.

 

**

Craig dreams of Tweek again that night. Unlike the night before, it isn’t based on memory and doesn’t make him cum in his pants like a teenager.

It’s probably not _entirely_ free of homosexual overtones, given that it could be interpreted as a bit _lovey-dovey_ , but it doesn’t bring the same disgust that his other dream did.

As he lies in bed recalling fading details, Craig considers whether he should be concerned about this.

That Tweek has caused a shift in his otherwise mundane life is undeniable. If he is totally honest with himself, it’s forced Craig to acknowledge his prior loneliness. It’s a little concerning, given that he shouldn’t _be_ lonely, not with God watching over him all the time. He shouldn’t crave company, but he realises that he does. God doesn’t speak to him. He knows God is there, but he feels like a long distance lover. He might send a bunch of roses from time to time, but they always seem to end up missing each other.

Yet another score on his tally of what makes him such a bad priest.

The other thing to consider is that this could purely be down to Tweek himself. Much as Craig can -begrudgingly- admit that he’s been lonely, Tweek is also an undeniably good human being. Craig’s prior conviction that Tweek’s soul was absolutely worth saving has strengthened tenfold. He’s not a doctor saving lives, or a professor saving minds, but he’s interesting and explosive to be around. He over-gesticulates, and he shouts too much, and he swears like a fishwife. He’s jumped into Craig’s life and spread his roots and somehow Craig is utterly captivated.

That in itself isn’t such a bad thing. Craig’s been captivated before: lecturers who speak about the cosmos like its poetry, Father Maxi when he’s delivering a particularly sweet sermon, Hell, even Bob Ross as he waxes lyrical about painting fir trees.

He’s been trying to tell himself that Tweek is no different, but a quiet little voice is nagging otherwise. Craig has never dreamt about fucking Bob Ross or Father Maxi.

Whatever. He’s an adult and a priest. He can handle this shit. He’s handled worse (so why is it feeling harder and harder?)

Rolling over with a sigh, Craig checks his phone, distracting himself with animal videos on YouTube until 5AM rolls around and he drags himself out of bed.

 

**

 

The day progresses as slowly and sedately as ever, the gut-wrenching nightmare of yesterday a healing scar.

It’s testament to Craig’s ever-enduring ability to neatly and methodically box things away. He knows realistically that it’s just another form of internalisation, but at least he has prayer to help attack it in his downtime. It beats resorting to his many, many vices. Or so he keeps telling himself.

At around three in the afternoon, as Craig sits in his office and scans over his ever-overflowing diary, the phone rings. It interrupts his absent minded musing on what might be for dinner, making him scowl with annoyance and swipe his hand out to answer.

“Hello, this is Father Tucker?”

“Good afternoon, Craig,” Father Maxi replies.

Craig sits up straighter, perplexed. Father Maxi likes to check in on him from time to time, but since he only saw him yesterday, the call comes as a bit of a surprise.

“Afternoon, Father. I wasn’t expecting you to ring so soon,” Craig says, casting his mind back to last night, wondering if Father Maxi left anything behind.

“No, I-” there’s hesitation in Father Maxi’s voice. It causes a small spike of worry to form in Craig’s stomach.

“Father?” Craig pushes.

“Craig… how are you, son?” Father Maxi asks. His voice is full of compassion and barely-disguised concern.

Craig casts a glance towards his still-closed office door, suddenly afraid that someone may burst in. The worry in Father Maxi’s voice leads him to think that perhaps he hadn’t been as subtle in disguising how close he’d been to breaking as he’d hoped.

“I uh… yeah. I’m doing alright,” Craig says, moderately stretching the truth.

“Are you sure?” Father Maxi presses.

“Well I mean, things haven’t been blissful or anything, but I’m doing alright. My birthday ended up being pretty nice.”

Father Maxi is silent for a moment. “Good,” He says, drawing the word our thoughtfully. “That’s good.”

“Uh… I mean, thanks for that?” Craig says, unable the keep the question out of his voice. His worry has been smothered by caution. He doesn’t know why, but his instinct is telling him to keep his guard up, which is unusual when it comes to Father Maxi.  

“That’s no problem, Craig. How’re you getting on with Tweek?” Father Maxi says, moving on quickly.

“Fine?” Craig replies, confused. “I think we’re pretty used to each other by now.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Father Maxi says. “How long do you think he’ll be staying with you for?”

Craig pauses at that. He’s always been dimly aware that this entire situation with Tweek is only meant to be temporary, but hearing Tweek’s presence quantified feels weird. Like it’s got an end-date. Which, of course it has, it’s just something that Craig’s not really mulled over.

“Dunno,” Craig answers honestly. “When he’s back on his feet.”

“I suppose that’s quite subjective isn’t it?” Father Maxi says. “He could be seen as back on his feet _now_ considering that he’s got a job and a few week’s savings behind him.”

“What? That’s barely anything. It’s not exactly a huge wage you know?” Craig frowns. “He needs more than _that_ behind him.”

“You’re probably right,” Father Maxi says. “But generally, how long do you think it’ll be until he _is_ ready? You’re a thinker, Craig. You’re good at guesstimating that sort of thing.”

Father Maxi isn’t wrong. Craig may have dropped out of college, but his math stayed strong. It’s usually his first port of call when he’s figuring the world out around him, but for some reason this time, he hasn’t been thinking that way.

“I uh, really don’t know,” he admits. “Whenever he feels like he’s ready? Why all the questions?”

“I just know you like your own space, Craig,” Father Maxi says. “I can imagine that sharing your home with another person might be taxing.”

“It isn’t,” Craig jumps in. He’s surprised to find that he means it. “Tweek’s… he’s cool. He cooks and cleans and stuff. Makes it easy to come home.” And more pleasant. And more rewarding.

“I see,” Father Maxi says. Craig doesn’t see at all, but the way his stomach rolls with an odd dread alarms him.

He doesn’t like where this conversation is going. Intuitively, he knows that Father Maxi has seen through him. Seen the disgusting pervert that he really is.

The thought makes Craig feel cold all over. Vulnerable. As if he’s sitting before Father Maxi as naked as a babe and feeling ashamed of it.

Even by phone, Father Maxi is perceptive. He reads the silence like the expert that he is, sighing softly and asking in the tenderest voice: “Craig, do you want to make a confession?”

 _Yes!_ Craig’s mind screams. _I’ve had straying thoughts but I’m so afraid you’ll be disappointed in me._

“Why do you think I need to?” He asks instead, guarded.

“Craig… I don’t want to come across as having anything other than the best of intentions, but do you think having Tweek staying at yours is a good idea?”

Craig bristles at that, even though he’s dead on. Something hot and rebellious and distinctly teenage flares within him. “Really? You’re going there?”

“Craig,” Father Maxi sighs, patient.

“No,” Craig snarls like a wounded lion. “You think because I’m a fag I’m gonna jump his bones?”

“That’s not what I’m-”

“No? Then what? When have I ever let anything happen since I joined the priesthood? Huh?”

“ _Craig_ ,” Father Maxi interrupts, sharp. “You are one of the strongest men I know. I don’t doubt that you will only act appropriately with Tweek. But it seems like an unfair strain to put on yourself.”

“I’m not some out of control gay who can’t stop thinking about dick,” Craig says. Attacking feels safer. “He needed somewhere to go. I don’t have any bad intentions.”

“I _know_ that, Craig,” Father Maxi says softly. “Regardless of what you think of yourself, you are a _good_ person. You are kind and you are caring, just in your own way. That’s not why I’m worried.”

Craig swallows. The comment knocks some of the hot fury out of him, stalling him slightly. “Well what then?” He presses, almost afraid to ask. “What’s the issue?”

“Because…” Father Maxi pauses. Sighs quietly. “Because you don’t see how you look at him.”

Craig frowns, his grip on his phone clenching slightly. “What?”

“Craig, I have never seen you look at _anyone_ like that before,” Father Maxi says, sounding utterly certain.

"That’s- he’s a friend. It’s not like you’ve ever seen me with a friend before-” it’s a lie. It’s all lies. Father Maxi has seen through him. Seen his dirty, squalid little thoughts.

“Craig you look at him like the sun’s come out from behind the clouds. You hang on his every word and give him the softest look I’ve ever gosh darned seen. You _dote_ on him.”

If Craig’s hand wasn’t cradling his phone, he would’ve dropped it. Of all the things he expected to hear, that was not it.

“I… no I don’t,” he replies weakly. He doesn’t, does he? He’s had dirty, perverted dreams and crass, base wandering thoughts of late, sure but _doting?_

Maybe it feels really nice having someone care about him again. Having someone there when he gets in, who he can kill some time with but…

“I don’t,” he says again, carrying even less conviction in his tone this time.

“You’re happier than I’ve seen you in a long time, Craig. That’s not a bad thing, but I feel like it might be because of Tweek, not in spite of him.”

“That’s not true,” Craig argues back. How could it be? Yesterday was a shitty day. He’s nearly drank for God’s sake. It hadn’t ended badly, but he wasn’t exactly bouncing off the fucking ceiling after either. “I’m the same as always.”

Father Maxi is silent for a moment. Then he sighs softly, sounding a lot like a father talking to a wayward child. “Craig, I’m not going to push you into anything. I trust you and I know you’re strong. I just want you to ask yourself: do you love him as much as you love God?”

Craig says nothing to that, fingers ghost white from where they’re clutching his phone so hard he might crack the screen.

“You know where I am if you need me, Craig. I am _always_ here for you.”

He can hardly hear Father Maxi’s voice. The answer should be obvious to him. It should come without hesitation. He loves God above all else, surely. He’s dedicated his life to Him, and with that, his love.

It’s obvious. That’s the answer. It’s always God in his heart. A sex dream and a few illicit thoughts about Tweek’s lovely hands, or his eyes, or the cute way he scrunches his nose isn’t enough to uproot years of dedication and service to God.

Is it?

“I… I need to go,” Craig rasps. “I’ve got…” He trails off, not even finishing the sentence.

“Okay, son,” Father Maxi says in a gentle voice. “I’m always here for you. Even if it’s just to talk.”

Craig says nothing in response. He waits until he hears the click of the call ending before slowly lowering his phone.

His stomach is churning again. Waves of cramps seizing and relaxing his gut.

The entire conversation has made him feel sick. He was ready to be called out on his selfish, perverted thoughts. To have his sin torn out of him and paraded around. For his most trusted mentor to vent his disappointment at Craig’s inability to control his subconscious thinking. But to question his _feelings_?

It’s a possibility that Father Maxi -kind man that he is- has misinterpreted something more lustful in Craig as something purer than it really is. Possible, but not likely, seeing as he’s frighteningly astute.

Lifting his hands to his face, Craig cups his cheeks and stares the the walnut of his desk, trying to find answers in the swirls of grain. One sex dream and some rogue thoughts about how nice it is having someone cook and clean for him doesn’t mean anything, surely. Realistically. He’s dreamt about fucking Token before, but that’s only because he’s a nice-looking guy with a fantastic body. The fact that he’s a friend had made Craig’s nose wrinkle in disgust upon awakening, all those years ago.

This feels different though. He’s been trying to force it to one side, but it does. Whether it’s loneliness or years of unresolved sexual frustration, there’s definitely a desire in Craig. Tweek’s exactly his type: blond, quirky, round in the right places, and a lovely smile. He’s delightfully masculine with an edge of what Craig can only call _cute_.

“Fuck,” he sighs out. “Oh, _fuck_.” There’s so much more to it than that. He’s been pretending otherwise, but he feels good just from Tweek being around. He likes his voice, and his opinions, and his fire when he’s pissed off. He likes his resolve, and his cackling laugh, and his messy cooking. He likes that soft look in his eyes when he’s empathising, and he likes the way that he _smells_.

 _You can like all of those things in a friend_ , Craig’s mind protests weakly. And it’s not wrong, except he doesn’t just _like_ those things. He wants them. All of them.

“I want to fuck him,” Craig grinds out, speaking aloud. “I’m frustrated, and he’s a cute guy. It’s wrong, but it’s forgivable if reject it. In fact, if it happens again, I’m going to confess,” he tells himself, reaching out for his address book and starting to scan the names of local priests, ready to know who to go to if another dream happens. He purposely avoids Father Maxi and circles Father Rodriguez’s name instead.

In the meanwhile, prayer will get him through this bad patch. He’s sure of it. Lust is a sin, but it’s ultimately shallow and easy to dwarf with more important focusses like his commitments and his duty to help Tweek get back on his feet. He won’t be the first priest to be tempted by thoughts of sex, and he won’t be the last. When, eventually, Tweek moves on with his life, Craig will be stronger for it. His dirty thoughts will fade away once again and life will continue as it had before.

He clenches his hands in his lap and tries not to think about how much he doesn’t want that. Such thoughts are weak and self-indulgent.

 _‘Do you love him as much as you love God?’_ Father Maxi’s voice whispers to him.

No, obviously. He just wants to fuck him because he’s a pathetic, weak-willed man. Because Tweek is attractive, and Craig is sex-starved. Because he’s as much of a gross, disgusting cock-obsessed loser as he always was.

Because somehow, that all feels so much safer to admit to than the alternative.

 

CRAIG END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CRAIG - END-
> 
> Hi, everyone!
> 
> Sorry for the monster chapter. I considered breaking it into two because a lot happens, but having a 2.5k word chapter to just outline the events after Craig's birthday felt weird.
> 
> Hoping to update next week with the start of the next act, but just have to make sure that I'm still comfortably ahead!


	11. Chapter 10

TWEEK

 

Sometimes Tweek likes to envision the morning rush queue as a giant snake. The person at the head is a snapping maw that can only be satiated with coffee. The last, invariably hovering at the door, is the twitching tail, indecisively fluttering.

He’s done this since he was twelve years old and forced from the back room of his parents’ coffee shop for the first time.

He still remembers the taste of terror on his tongue. Twelve years old and an anxious, paranoid wreck, thrust in front of a line of demanding customers.

Back then, his parents told him he had ADD. They paid for him to see a therapist twice a week, so even if Tweek had started to question things, his therapist would have pushed the thought from his mind.

He hadn’t doubted them, of course. What twelve year old does? Parents are always right, after all. Therapists were experts and teachers knew everything. What chance had he had, when every adult he knew failed him? How hard could it have been to pick up on the fact that he was twelve years old and unknowingly hooked on meth?

He wishes now that he could say the paranoia had been frightening, but it hadn’t. It had been as natural as breathing. The world was a frightening and brutal place -his dad told him that- so what else could he have been but afraid? When it becomes your very existence you forget what fear feels like in the first place. You just come to accept the racing heart and the shortness of breath.

Early in his life, Tweek’s therapist had taught Tweek visualisation techniques. His wildly active imagination had accepted the mechanism with glee. It helped him through exams, stupid fights at school, and, on a day like this nineteen years ago, it had helped him with his first day on front of house.

Older and healthier inside and out, the Tweek of now regards his childhood self as a distant memory. He’s been clean for years and the psychological scars have (mostly) healed over. They’re still raised and still tender at points, but mostly they’re nothing more than a facet of himself that he’s learnt to deal with.

Sometimes though, only sometimes, old habits find their way from the murky depths to float to the surface. His snake visualisation is one of those habits. He’s never told anyone about it, not even Craig, but as he chops the last piece of tail off the snake and the last customer wanders out, Tweek can’t help smiling at it.

“Excellent service again,” his manager says with a cherubic smile lined with devilish red lipstick.

Tweek blushes and ducks his head, flustered as always by her smile.

He’d met Bebe during his interview. He’d been so desperate to get the job that he’d barely even noticed what an absolute babe she was.

It hadn’t taken him long to notice once he’d started. Every smile she sent him made him blush and once, when Craig was out, he’d jerked off to the thought of her shapely form. Well, tried to anyway. It had been not long after he’d moved into Craig's place and honestly he’d felt a little weird about it all. Like he was being disrespectful, given that the place was all was all holy and stuff. After that, he’d taken to using public toilets, which was pretty gross and had reduced jerking off to a necessary evil, giving him little scope for fantasy.

If Tweek was a more confident man, he’d ask Bebe out on a date. As it is, he’s keenly aware that he’s currently homeless and on record for assault. That and he’s fairly sure that Bebe has a boyfriend.

“Thanks. I think it’s in my blood though,” Tweek admits.

Bebe laughs. “Well you can certainly tell that you’re a pro at it anyway. I’m so glad I hired you. Most newbies fall apart at the morning rush. You seem to own it.”

Tweek bobs his head, feeling embarrassed. He always does when someone compliments him. His first thought is always that they must be talking about someone else. “It’s drilled into me, I guess.”

“Looks that way,” Bebe agrees, turning to mess with the coffee machine. “What can I get you? And don’t say-”

“Americano, black,” Tweek sings out.

“-Americano, black,” Bebe says, pouting. “Damnit, Tweek. I want to make something fun.”

“Sorry,” Tweek chuckles. “I just love coffee how it is. I don’t like all that added flavour.”

“Fine,” Bebe drawls, starting on making the drinks. “So now we have two seconds to think, what did you get up to last night?”

Tweek’s hands twitch around the washcloth he’s currently strangling. “Uh… you know. Not much.”

Bebe pauses, giving him a meaningful look. “I’m not buying that. Come on, spill.”

Tweek falls silent, wiping down the bar with single-minded focus. “Honestly, nothing.”

“Tweek.”  Bebe stops to let the machine take over, turning to face him fully. “I know I’m your boss, but I hope you know you can talk to me. I won’t hold anything against you.”

Tweek stops scrubbing at that, turning to look over at her. He knows that she means it. He admitted early on that his accommodation was only temporary and she hadn’t been mad at him. She only cared about his skill at the time. Weeks later, or so Tweek feels anyway, she cares about him as a person.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I told you about Craig’s birthday last week, didn’t I?” Bebe nods. “He’s just… been weird since then I guess.”

“Weird how?” Bebe presses.

“Like… quieter. He’s always pretty quiet, but he’s barely spoken to me these last few days. I’ve hardly seen him too. I just feel like he’s avoiding me,” he admits. He’s pretty certain about that, actually. He’s thought people were avoiding him countless times in the past, but living with someone leaves little room for doubt: it takes effort to avoid someone you live with. That’s why he’s so sure that Craig _is._

“Any idea why that’d be?” Bebe asks, surprised. She finishes the drinks and hands one to Tweek.

“Thanks,” Tweek smiles, taking a quick inhale. “Honestly? Not really. Everything seemed fine on his birthday. Well… it didn’t, but… he seemed fine with _me._ ”

“Why didn’t it seem fine?”

Tweek pauses at that. Much as he and Bebe have struck up a comfortable camaraderie and much as he finds her attractive, talking so openly about Craig feels a little like betrayal. He owes Craig everything. He isn’t sure he wants to be spilling his guts about all of his thoughts and concerns about him.

Because honestly, Tweek _is_ concerned. Craig is a seriously great guy, but Tweek would have to be blind not to see how lonely he is. Every time he lets Tweek take a little peek into his life, Tweek finds no one else there. He’s suspected that Craig has spent a lot of time alone, but his birthday was the final straw. If Father Maxi hadn’t shown up, no one would have celebrated it. No cards from Craig’s parents, no gifts, nothing from anyone except that Token guy.

Tweek’s own life has hardly been full of excitement and friends, but people had at least pretended to care about his birthday. _He’d_ cared about his birthday. Craig hadn’t even seemed to get _that_ far.

The thought makes an unpleasant pang of hurt squeeze Tweek’s heart. What had Craig’s thirtieth been like? Had he shared it with anyone? Or had he just worked through it and sent himself to bed at the end of it?

To top off all of his worries was how ill Craig had looked. He hadn’t looked _well_ and it hadn’t just been physical. Tweek’s been haunted by enough monsters to know what it looks like on another man. Craig had been struggling with something, and Tweek has no idea what. He looked like his fuel reserves had just run dry.

“I just… I guess I don’t like that he didn’t care it was his birthday,” Tweek says truthfully.

Bebe shrugs. “Maybe he’s conscious about his age?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Tweek says. “It didn’t feel like that. More like he just didn’t think it was worth it.” He breaks off to sigh. “I think he’s lonely. I think he’s _really_ lonely, but I can’t think of anything that can fix it.”

“Yeah… it’s kind of his job,” Bebe says, although she wrinkles her nose to show just what she thinks of that. “God got lucky there. Any girl would kill to date him. He’s yummy.”

In all their conversations about Craig, Tweek has always left out the part where Craig is gay. He doesn’t want to out him to the local community, so he doesn’t correct Bebe. Instead he forces a laugh and says: “Bebe I think it’s bad to talk about a priest that way.”

“Oh please,” Bebe scoffs. “You’re not Christian and I’m barely. I’d sin the Hell out of that man.”

“Bebe!” Tweek shrieks, going red at the very idea. “That’s so inappropriate!”

“It’s inappropriate that he’s hot,” Bebe sighs. “He’s an attractive guy in his early thirties and he’s not even allowed to jerk off. It’s a waste.”

The idea of Craig jerking off makes Tweek’s stomach squirm in a weird way. He soothes it with a gulp of coffee.

“I guess he doesn’t see it that way, if he’s dedicated himself to God,” Tweek shrugs.

They’re interrupted by the arrival of a guest, both snapping back to business to prepare a flat white and a cinnamon bun.

Once the guy has taken his order with a small thanks and sat down at a table in the corner to work, Bebe hums thoughtfully.

“When you think about it, priests are forced to push aside basic human nature,” she says, although she speaks more softly due to the presence of a customer.

“What do you mean?” Tweek asks, picking his coffee up again.

“Well think about it. It’s human nature to want to fuck, and get off. Even beyond sex, it’s instinct to want to be with other people. Humans are social animals. We want to be together. Spending a life alone, even if someone believes that God is with them… it goes against instinct.”

“I guess,” Tweek sighs. Bebe isn’t wrong there. Even at his worst, when he felt like his skin was crawling off his bones and everyone was filthy, Tweek still wanted _someone_ to be there, close to him.

It sheds more light on the struggle Craig must be feeling. Tweek thinks that he should respect how strong Craig’s faith is, but truthfully it just makes his heart hurt.

“It’s not my place, I guess,” Tweek says finally. “I just want him to be happy.”

Bebe smiles at that. “Hey, coming home to someone who gives a shit is a great starting point, Tweek. I’m sure having you there for him is making him feel a lot happier.”

Tweek can’t help smiling at that. For some reason that thought makes him feel happier too.

 

**

 

The rest of his workday had passed without incident. He and Bebe had talked a little more about Craig before moving on to other topics of discussion.

Following Bebe’s advice, Tweek decides to take the first step in breaking down whatever wall has been erected between himself and Craig. Well, the language used had been ‘confront’, but Tweek doesn’t feel comfortable about confronting the man who has essentially saved his life.

He’s already worrying that imposing himself on Craig even more might lead to him being kicked out. He’s pretty sure that won’t happen since Craig is such a sweet guy, but it’s still a possibility. He can’t just let this go though. It might have only been five days, but Tweek misses the guy. Rattling around alone in a home that isn’t his feels lonely.

He’s unsurprised to find that the rectory is empty when he gets in. It doesn’t shake him this time though. Instead, he psyches himself up and marches into the kitchen to begin cooking.

Forty minutes later, Tweek is standing in front the door to Craig’s office. The idiot hadn’t thought to lock the church doors and Tweek can’t help but panic that any old rapist or murderer could walk in have his way with him. Somehow, focusing on Craig’s potential murder makes the next part of lifting his hand and knocking easier.

“Come in?” Craig’s voice filters from behind the door, sounding perplexed.

Taking a breath, Tweek swings the door open. “Hey, man,” he says.

For a moment, Craig looks surprised, colouring slightly. Tweek takes a moment to bite back a small laugh, finding the expression strangely adorable.

“Tweek, what are you doing here?” Craig asks once he’s collected himself.

It’s not an odd question, given that Tweek isn’t Christian, but it still makes him huff with annoyance. “Why do you think?” Tweek says, heading over to sit in one of the chairs. At Craig’s blank look, he sighs and places the bag he’s carrying on the desk. “I’m here to feed you, Craig. You’ve spent the last few days living on leftovers and -I assume- cup noodles. I already told you that I was gonna see you eat more healthily and besides… I’m tired of eating alone,” he adds, voice tapering off into a soft tone.

Craig glances at the bag, a guilty look crossing his face. “I uh, I’m sorry about that.”

“Craig,” Tweek says, putting everything he has into trying to sound as understanding and patient as he feels. “I don’t get what’s up with you and I’m not demanding that you tell me. But whatever demons you’re fighting, you don’t have to do it alone, you know? You didn’t leave me to fight my literal demon alone and I want you to know that I want to return the favour any way I can. Not that I’m doing this because I owe you. Oh Jesus, sorry. Look, I’m not sure what to say, I just feel like you’re punishing yourself and I wish you’d stop.”

Craig’s mouth draws into a hard line on his otherwise expressionless face. For a moment Tweek panics, fearing that he’s gone too far, said too much. That this is the moment that Craig yells at him to get out and get gone.

But then, all at once, Craig’s expression softens. Tweek can see something pained and vulnerable there and all he wants to do is hug him.

“Tweek-” Craig pauses to clear his throat. “Tweek, thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been shutting myself away. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Tweek goes warm all over. Craig’s still thinking of him. He’s certain that no one has ever been this kind to him before.

“No, man. This isn’t about me,” Tweek insists. “This is about you. Look, I know I don’t get God and faith and stuff. I don’t get some of the choices you’ve made but I respect them. I just don’t want to see you hurting yourself over it, you know. If you believe so strongly in God, you gotta feel like He loves you, especially when you’re going around fighting demons and helping homeless guys and people in hospices. You’re one of the good guys, Craig. You don’t deserve to feel like you gotta shut yourself away.”

Craig looks down at the sheaf of paper he’s been working on, twisting the pen he’s been holding around. “I don’t feel like a good guy,” he admits slowly. “You don’t know what kind of thoughts I’ve been having.”

“So what?” Tweek says. “You’re only human. You don’t wanna like… fuck a kid or axe-murder someone do you?”

“What? No!” Craig says, eyes going wide in horror.

“Then it’s probably just normal, Craig. If it’s really, really bad it might be intrusive thoughts which, I’ve had before so I can definitely help there but otherwise… I think you just gotta be kinder to yourself.”

Craig doesn’t look up from his papers. His shoulders haunch forward. “I’m not sure it’s as easy as that.”

“It never is, Craig,” Tweek says softly, because he knows, _knows_ it isn’t. “But I don’t think you’re okay and I know from experience that shutting yourself away won’t help.”

“I have prayer,” Craig frowns.

“And that’s great, and I’m glad that it helps you, but you also have _me_ ,” Tweek insists.

Craig looks up then, meeting his eyes. For a long moment they hold the gaze and Tweek feels something that he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s powerful and a little frightening, the intensity of Craig’s gaze sending a shiver down his spine.

Suddenly, his throat feels dry and he feels compelled to speak to break the silence, jerking his eyes away. “And don’t go thinking that this is because I feel like I owe you or anything. You’re my friend, Craig. Probably the best one over ever had. I want to help.”

When he looks back up, Craig’s looking away himself. For a moment Craig looks ready to protest, but then he nods instead and sends him a look of resigned amusement. “I don’t feel like I have much of a choice.”

“Nope!” Tweek smiles, feeling a bit more cheerful. “Now eat up. You can’t avoid me if I’m sitting opposite you so now I can make sure you eat.”

Craig’s lips quirk into a small smirk as he reaches out to pull out still-warm food wrapped carefully in foil. Pulling it open, Craig’s smirk grows into a genuine smile and Tweek can hear his stomach growl from across the room. “Enchirito?”

“Yep!” Tweek says, reaching for his own wrap. “Figured you could do with something nice and unhealthy.”

“I thought you were s’posed to be making me eat healthier,” Craig says around a mouth full of enchorito.

“Step one is actually filling you up. I can get you back on healthy stuff tomorrow,” Tweek replies with an equally full mouth. He pauses to swallow, glancing up at Craig, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “That’s if you _wanna_ eat with me tomorrow.”

Craig pauses to stare at him. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “Yeah,” He says. “Yeah, I do.”

Tweek can’t help feeling a happy thrill run through him. “Great,” he says, honestly, truly looking forward to it. It comes as a surprise: it’s only been four days but, Tweek realises, he’s missed Craig desperately.

Weird, but it’s not a bad thing, Tweek supposes. It feels kind of nice to rely on someone else again.

 

**

 

True to his word, Craig doesn’t disappear first thing the next morning. Nor does he hide out in his office during dinner the next day.

Things generally seem to return to normal, although Craig remains quieter than usual. Tweek can tell that he’s at least trying. He asks about Tweek’s day again, and shares some of his own when Tweek prompts him to.

Tweek lets a couple of days slip by before he allows himself to feel cautiously optimistic about things returning to normal. He isn’t sure that Craig is ready to open up about what’s bothering him so much, but Tweek feels passionate about making Craig feel as supported as he does by Craig.

“I think you were right, Bebe,” Tweek smiles after the last morning rush customer has left, coffee in hand.

Bebe hums in question, brewing up a coffee for them both. “I often am, but which way was it this time?”

“About confronting Craig head on,” Tweek says, breathless with excitement. “He’s stopped avoiding me!”

“That’s great!” Bebe gifts him with another of her glorious smiles. “Being direct is so much better than letting things build up. So did he say what was up?”

“Not really, something about bad thoughts but he didn’t expand.”

Bebe clicks her tongue at that. “Well unless they’re scary-bad, it’s probably nothing. Wait- he doesn’t own a gun does he?” Bebe says, splaying her hand dramatically over her ample bosom.

Tweek has to force his eyes not to linger. “No!” He pouts. “Craig’s not like that. He’s gentle.”

He says the last so fondly that he surprises himself. When he pauses to reflect on it, it’s definitely one of the things that Tweek likes the most about him. He may look imposing with his height and his default scowl, but the harshest thing about him is his tongue. Even then, Craig is cutting but not thoughtlessly _mean_.

“Look at you, smiling all goofily,” Bebe teases him. “You must be his number one fan, and you’re not even Catholic. Oh, the irony."

Tweek goes to protest, his cheeks red with embarrassment, when he’s interrupted by the door pushing open.

At the arrival of a customer, they snap into business, straightening and putting on their best service smiles.

“Welcome to Harbucks, may I take your order, sir?” Tweek asks, awed by the man’s tidy mop of red curls.

The man nods, but his eyes remain downcast. In the slope of his shoulders, he looks like he is carrying the world. It makes Tweek’s heart fly to him, tender concern blossoming in his chest.

“Soy latte, please,” the man says, pushing a ten dollar bill across the counter.

“Sure,” Tweek says in a cheerful voice that sounds grating to his own ears. “Can I get you anything extra?”

“No, thanks,” the man grunts.

He stands silently as Tweek makes his drink up. Every time Tweek glances over he just looks more and more sad. By the time Tweek is done and sliding both the cup and the change over to him, the guy glumly takes both with a soft thanks and heads over to the corner table.

Unable to help himself, Tweek finds himself immediately worrying about the guy. He looks a lot like the world has kicked him when he’s down, something that Tweek can empathise with.

Remembering Craig’s words suddenly from so long ago, Tweek makes a decision and wipes his hands on his apron.

“Hey, uh, do you mind if I talk to that guy a little bit? He looks really down,” Tweek says quietly.

Bebe glances over before looking back to Tweek with eyebrows arched high in surprise. “Well, I guess so? Just make sure to come back if we get a couple of people in.”

Tweek shoots her a grateful smile for her understanding, wiping his hands down on his apron and pulling the bar up to head towards the lonesome-looking guy.

His confidence falters as he draws nearer. Despite Craig’s words about baristas making good therapists fuelling him on, he’s keenly aware that he could make things worse. Or come across as some sort of creep. He almost bails, but then it’s too late and he’s hovering by the empty chair opposite the guy.

The guy looks up, eye squinted in mild confusion. “Can I help you?”

“Uh,” Tweek says intelligently. “No, sorry I- I mean I just came over to ask if you were okay.”

The guy blinks once. Then he scowls. It’s an angry-looking scowl with cheeks flushed as red as his hair and Tweek instantly berates himself for fucking up. _Why did he think he could do this?_

“That’s none of your damned business!” The guy snaps. “Who the Hell are you to come here, poking your nose into my business?”

“I’m sorry!” Tweek whimpers. “I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean any harm. You just looked sad. I’ll leave you alone,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. A cold ripple of dread runs through him. Bebe must have seen all that. She must be considering firing him for his idiocy and then he’ll lose his job and be an ever bigger burden to Craig and hen Craig will grow to hate him but will be too kind to kick him out and—

“Hey,” That’s guy says, much less aggressively this time. “Hey, I’m sorry. That was a dick move. You were only being nice to me. It’s been a bad day. Bad year, really.”

“That sucks,” Tweek says lamely, heart still hammering with fear. “I’m sorry to hear that. Everyone deserves a break sometimes.”

The guy nods slowly. “Yeah, you’re right there. Especially from themselves.” He pauses to sigh, but Tweek’s interest is piqued.

Before he can help himself, he responds. “I think a break from yourself is what people need the most. We can be our own worst enemies.”

The guy looks up at him then, a surprised look crossing his face. He casts his glance to the seat opposite. “Have a seat, you’re making me nervous, standing over me like that.”

Nodding, Tweek hurriedly pulls the chair out with a noisy scrape. The sound makes him cringe, especially when he sees the other guy wince. By the time he sits down, his cheeks are red with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” Tweek says again. When the guy looks up, Tweek waves his hand, searching for words to justify his actions. “I just don’t like the thought of people dealing with stuff alone.”

“Heh,” the guy breathes out a soft laugh. “Well I am pretty much on my own right now, so you’re not wrong.”

“Oh,” Tweek looks sadly at the table surface. “That sucks. I’m sorry to hear that.”

The guy is silent for a moment before he lets out a heavy sigh. “Do you ever just wish that things could be simple?”

Tweek smiles at that. “All the time.”

The guy nods. “I think people would be happier if the world were simple. Are you, um, religious at all?”

Tweek blinks, taken aback by the random question. “I uh, not really. I follow Buddhist teachings I guess?”

“Yeah,” the guy nods. “Me either. I was raised Jewish, but I never really believed.” He pauses, sliding his cup back and forth by the handle as he thinks. “I get that it can bring comfort, I really do, but some people just seem to use it to punish themselves.”

Tweek’s brow creases at that. The image of Craig jumps to mind. To Tweek, Craig’s faith feels like a cage wrapped around him, keeping him trapped and far away from who he really is.

It’s not fair of him to think that way. He knows it. Knows there’s more to it than that. That Craig lives and breathes his faith and that it’s the bedrock of his life.

But still… although Tweek can respect it, he doesn’t understand it. Craig is an amazing guy. Too amazing to be struggling with who he really is.

“I know what you mean,” Tweek says softly.

“Yeah?” The guy says, studying Tweek.

Tweek nods slowly. “My friend- my _dear_ friend, he- religion means a _lot_ to him, but it’s kind of at odds with what makes him happy.”

The guy nods too. “Yeah my- my _friend_ is similar. He wants one thing, but then he hates himself for wanting it.”

“Yeah…” Tweek pauses to bite his lip. “Yeah my friend is similar to that.”

“I just don’t _get_ it. If religion is supposed to be about love and all that shit, why isn’t it okay to love who you _want_ to? Why do people have to be made to feel so guilty all the damn time?” There’s something stirring about the way that he speaks. He speaks with real passion that leaves Tweek momentarily breathless.

After a moment the guy sinks in his chair. “Sorry,” He says. “I just hate it. I hate seeing him suffer. I hate all this secrecy.”

Tweek regards him with a soft, sympathetic expression. He has a good idea of what the story is here. He’s not about to push for it. He just knows that he feels very sorry for this guy and his so-called _friend._

It makes him feel even more sorry for Craig.

“It’s hard,” Tweek says, not sure what else he _can_ say. “And it sucks. Maybe I can only look at it this way because I don’t understand. I don’t ever want to undermine someone’s faith or how meaningful it is to them, but I do think that denying who you really are will only ever make you miserable.”

The guy nods. “I think you’re right. I know I’m not fair to him. I know that his faith got him through some really hard times but I just don’t think he has a healthy relationship with it. It’s become his crutch and it wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t tell him to reject a fundamental part of himself. All it does is create a constant war inside him and it must just be…”

“Exhausting,” Tweek whispers, suddenly understanding -really, _truly_ understanding- Craig’s withdrawal. The sheer energy it must take to fight yourself all the time… it sounds exhausting.

“Yeah,” the guy agrees. “You’re totally right. Eventually, something’s got to give. We can’t keep doing this. He’s going to have to make his mind up and keep to it, otherwise he’s just going to end up hitting rock bottom again.”

There’s something prophetic about that. It makes Tweek shiver in his seat. It suddenly feels as if there’s a ticking clock hanging over his head. Over Craig.

How long can he really stay lonely for? The rest of his life? Or will something give? Will he end up blind drunk somewhere? Or jumping into bed with a guy who could hurt him? Or worse?

Tweek shakes himself from that line of thought, scolding himself. Who is he to make such assumptions? Craig has been holding it all together just fine. He’s strong and Tweek is only projecting his own weakness and own craving for human company onto him. He loves his God and his Church. Tweek shouldn't be assuming that it’s not enough.

Or so he tells himself. He still feels terribly cold.

“Sorry for that,” the guy interrupts his thoughts. “I appreciate you sitting with me. It feels good to just… let this shit out.”

“It’s no problem,” Tweek says softly. “Honestly. Thank you for not being mad about me interrupting your coffee.”

“You didn’t. I’m grateful. Kyle, by the way,” he says, holding his hand out.

“Tweek,” Tweek returns.

“I know, it’s on your badge,” Kyle says dryly, causing Tweek to blush. “Is that really your name?”

“Unfortunately,” Tweek grimaces.

Kyle’s mouth turns into a small smile. “Wow. Well uh, thanks for the time, Tweek. I might end up coming back here since the service is so good.”

Unable to help himself, Tweek smiles back. He gets to his feet, pushing the chair back under the table and heads back to the counter where Bebe is marvelling at him.

Ordinarily he’d be flattered. Maybe his heart would give a little jump. But despite the fact that he feels good about helping Kyle, and the interested look Bebe is giving him, that cold feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn’t fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless, Tweek. He still thinks he's straight.
> 
> \--
> 
> I am sincerely sorry for the delay. I have been so, so busy with work and I wanted to build up more of a contingency on this story.
> 
> I figured that delaying Tweek's thoughts a little rather than staggering this bit too much would be better!


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give a special thank you to xxawkward-monsterxx/ xPinkTweekx on tumblr for putting together a stunning pair of pictures inspired by this story.
> 
> They capture the atmosphere and characters beautifully. Please do take a look.
> 
> [[Craig](https://xxawkward-monsterxx.tumblr.com/post/174258929311/ive-been-struggling-a-lot-with-my-anxiety-and)]
> 
> [[Tweek](https://xxawkward-monsterxx.tumblr.com/post/174283036081/xxawkward-monsterxx-ive-been-struggling-a-lot)]

It’s been happening slowly. Strange thoughts. Odd thoughts.

Bad thoughts.

Tweek’s been ignoring them for a while. Everyone has bad thoughts. He’s suffered from anxiety for enough years to recognise intrusive thoughts. He’s been buzzed on meth for long enough to grow accustomed to skittering thoughts and hot bursts of paranoia-drenched fear.

He’s okay. Everything is okay.

 _‘Everything is okay,’_ the voice in his subconscious agrees.

Tweek can't remember when the voice of his subconscious started sounding this way. It’s dry and hissing and doesn’t sound like his own voice. It sounds dirty.

He doesn’t like it.

Thinking is harder lately. On the surface everything is normal. Everything is fine. He gets up and gets ready and goes to work and comes home and fills his time and sleeps. He smiles and chats light-heartedly with customers in that easy, breezy way he talks these days. He feels like himself and everything is fine.

Everything isn’t fine.

He stops sometimes and tries to think. Tries to isolate what isn’t right in his mind, but it slips away from him, slimy like an eel. The slick path left behind as it buries deeper into his mind feels dirty and it makes him feel physically sick until the thought is gone again. The thought is gone and Tweek forgets, but he feels that little bit more filthy every time.

He’s been thinking about his parents a lot lately. They owe him a lot for the shit they’ve put him through. Sometimes Tweek thinks they should just die and hand over the small fortune they’ve amassed since it’s the least they can do for him. Sometimes his mind produces vivid images for him: his dad smiling gormlessly as Tweek’s knife sinks in again and again into his meat, wet squelches filling the air as blood pools into the wound and creates suction. His mom would turn blue as his hands clenched around her swan neck, eyes going red as blood vessels explode like fireworks in her eyeballs.

The thing in his mind purrs and stretches like a fat cat. Tweek finds himself sobbing and afraid.

Tweek doesn’t know how long he’s been feeling like this for (he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last). Everything is scary. Everything wants to hurt him. Everyone wants to leave him. The friends who aren’t around anymore, the parents who fix him with loveless, empty smiles. No one wants him.

' _I_ _’ll protect you,’_ the voice soothes. ‘ _You’re safe. Let me protect you and keep you safe.’_

The voice isn’t so scary any more. It doesn’t make him feel dirty. There’s nothing left that’s clean. Tweek isn’t there any more. He doesn’t know where he is, but it smells like piss and shit and sulphur and everything is agony, but at least the voice is quiet.

He feels his body turn to the mirror. Eyes that aren’t his own peer at his reflection.

The demon grins back at him.

 

**

 

He’s still screaming when he wakes, but it’s silent this time, a choking of air against his closed throat. His jaw flares with sharp pain from where his mouth is gaping open.

The jab of pain provides a welcome shock, enough to slam Tweek back down into his bones. He’s suddenly able to breathe again, chest heaving in staccato gasps. His hands rise shakily, clutching at his face to remind himself that he’s real. That the demon is gone, despite the fact that he feels dirty. Like there’s a shit smear deep, deep down inside him that he’ll never scrub clean.

Shuddering, Tweek rubs a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers catch on tangles. He’s covered in a gross, cold sweat and briefly longs for a shower before dismissing the thought, afraid that he’ll wake Craig up.

Coffee feels like the next best bet. He won’t be sleeping again after a dream like that.

Heeding the siren call, Tweek swings his feet over the side of the couch and stands up on wobbly legs. He’s still breathing hard as he pads through the living room towards the kitchen. He notices as he approaches that there’s a faint light peeking out from under the door. It gives him pause for hesitation, caution guiding his movements as he swings the door open softly.

Craig greets him. Tweek is so relieved that he’s not a thief that he almost forgets his dream for a moment.

“Hey,” Craig says softly, nursing a cup of coffee between his palms. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” Tweek says, shaking his head. “I didn’t even know you were in here.”

Craig nods, eyes sweeping over him. “You okay?”

“I-” he’s about to say he’s okay. Thinks better of it. He trusts Craig and right now he needs that security. That grounding in the here and now. So instead of running away, he pulls out the chair opposite Craig’s and sits down. “Not really.”

“Bad dream?” Craig asks, keenly observant as always.

Tweek nods, reaching out to fiddle with a stray spoon. “Yeah…”

“Want to talk about it?” Craig says as he regards Tweek with a steady gaze over the rim of his mug. His voice is soft and low in the quiet of the early hours. It feels intimate. The kind of voice reserved for lovers sharing warmth under bed sheets.

“I dreamt… about the demon. About how dirty it felt- I- it-” he pauses, forcing himself to take a breath. “I don’t feel like I’ll ever be truly clean again. I’m scared,” he admits. His voice is only just above a whisper. As if the demon is waiting in the dark, waiting to strike the moment he admits his fears.

Slowly, Craig sets his mug down. He folds his hands around the mug instead in a loose imitation of prayer.

“You’re afraid you still carry some sort of unclean taint?”

“Yeah,” Tweek says. “You put it better than me, but yeah. I’m such a weak person, you know? It came for me because I’m such an easy target and I couldn’t fight back. The worst part is, I don’t feel like anything’s changed. If it comes back again I’ll fail and I’ll hurt people.”

Craig regards him intently for a long moment and Tweek can’t help but shiver. Craig always looks at him like he’s seeing so much _more._ Like he can see beneath his marred skin and into his core. His soul, if such a thing exists.

“I’m not paying lip service when I say you’re one of the strongest people I know,” Craig says in that same, soft voice. This time it carries a note of reverence with it. “You’ve overcome so much, Tweek. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Tweek looks away. “I don’t feel like I deserve any credit. I’m just… muddling along.”

He startles when, suddenly, Craig reaches across the table and lays his hand over Tweek’s. The touch almost physically jolts him, sending a surge of warmth through him from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes.

“Muddling along is all anyone ever does, Tweek. No one has their shit totally together, they only make it look like they do.”

Tweek swallows, eyes fixing on where Craig’s long fingers are laid over his own. Long, elegant fingers made for delicate work and caressing pages. He’s never really noticed that before. Despite Craig’s often surly expression, his hands seem capable of such gentleness.

It sums him up pretty well, really.

“I’m tired of feeling so scared all the time,” Tweek admits softly.

“You’re allowed to feel scared,” Craig says in that same, gentle voice. “But, Tweek, you’re way too hard on yourself. To me, you’re a fucking _inspiration_.”

Tweek blinks. “ _Me?”_ He says, disbelieving. Craig literally battles demons for a living, both real and internal. How can someone as amazing as Craig, who fights for others and offers safety and comfort at a cost of his own happiness, find _him_ inspirational?

“Yes, _you_ ,” Craig smiles. “You’ve been through awful things, Tweek, but you never gave up. We were able to reach you to bring you back, and ever since then, nothing has stopped you. You could have fallen apart- fuck, no one would have blamed you for it- but instead you kept trying. I think that is amazing.”

Tweek swallows. “Yeah, thanks to _you._ ”

Craig shakes his head. “Not thanks to me. I threw you a line. You’re the one who did the hard work getting yourself built back up again.”

“I don’t feel very built back up,” Tweek admits softly.

“You never give yourself credit, Tweek. I said it before and I still mean it: you’re capable of more than you think. That’s why I _know_ that the demon is gone for good. I don’t doubt you can still feel traces of it’s foulness in you. It touched you in ways I can’t imagine in places that no one else can reach. But believe me when I say that it’s fine and it won’t come back. Your soul burns too bright.”

At those words, Tweek _remembers._ Remembers the dark, cold cell that stank of his own sweat and piss and shit. Remembers how much everything hurt, how living was such an effort that didn’t seem worthwhile. How hopeless he felt. And then those words: _more capable than you think._ Feeling believed in for the first time that he could remember.

For a dangerous moment, Tweek feels almost overcome with emotion. His throat closes with a choked-off sob. He flips the hand trapped under Craig’s over, curling his fingers around it, gripping. It’s grounding. Warm. Safe.

“You always make me feel like I’m worthwhile,” Tweek says in a voice wobbly with emotion. “You always see so much good in me.”

“That’s because you _are_ worthwhile, Tweek,” Craig says with a quiet, firm conviction. The fingers tangled with his pulse in a soft squeeze. “You’re more worthwhile than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Surprised, Tweek meets Craig’s eyes. Although his face gives little away, his eyes are burning with fiery intensity. There’s something almost overwhelming in that gaze. Something almost passionate. It makes the air between them sizzle. As if the crackle of electricity extends between them.

Tweek feels naked under those eyes, his skin prickling with something undefinable. It makes his breath feel short and his skin feels like it’s not his own. Before he’s aware of it, he pulls his hand free, returning it to his lap. His cheeks are full of colour suddenly and he finds himself at a loss as to what just happened.

Craig stands abruptly, the spell broken.

“Coffee?” He asks, already busying himself with the pot.

“Uh, yeah sure,” Tweek says. He won’t be going back to sleep after a dream like that.

From his viewpoint, he sees the bob of Craig’s head as he nods. Craig says nothing as he busies himself with the coffee, the small kitchen filling sounds of bubbling and clinks that try to chase the silence away.

When he turns back around and places a mug full of black coffee in front of Tweek, Craig is all business again. The softness before has been chased from his face, seemingly sealed up and locked away. Tweek isn’t sure if something’s changed, but his gut tells him that he’s missing something important. The atmosphere in the room still feels odd. Almost like it’s too charged. It feels wrong that Craig is sitting, stoic as ever in the midst of it, when all Tweek wants to do is wring his hands.

“I meant to say. I’ve got to do an overnighter tomorrow night -well, I suppose it’s _tonight_ now-  so you’ll have the house to yourself,” Craig says in his normal tone of voice.

“Oh,” Tweek says, surprised. He relaxes a little at Craig’s calmer tone, but not by much. “What for?”

“Just a reading, but it’s the next state over so it makes more sense for me to grab a motel room or something.”

Tweek nods. “Okay. Make sure you eat though.”

Usually that would raise a smile in Craig, or at the very least a quirk of his lips, but this time he’s stony expression doesn’t crack.

“Feel free to use my bed while I’m gone,” he says instead.

“Huh?” Tweek says, confused.

“I won’t be using it and it seems stupid to leave you sleeping on a couch when there’s a bed free. It’s been weeks since you slept in a bed, right?”

“I-” Tweek cuts himself off, his usual self-sacrificial protest dying on his lips. Luckily, Craig’s old couch is still plush and comfortable, but the idea of a _bed_ sounds too good to be true. “Are you sure? I’d hate to impose.”

“How is it imposing?” Craig asks. He pauses to shrug. “Don’t feel obliged. I’ll change the sheets and you can do what you want.”  

When he stops speaking, he drains his cup and gets to his feet, putting the mug on the side. Then he brushes himself down.

“I’m going to get ready for work. May as well go in early.”

“O-okay,” Tweek says, watching as Craig sweeps past him and out of the room. The weird atmosphere goes with him, leaving the kitchen feeling slightly empty afterwards.

It’s only once he’s gone that Tweek realises that Craig had been up before him. He feels a guilty stab in the pit of his stomach when he reflects on their conversation and notes that he didn’t even ask why Craig had been awake himself.

Something had happened during their conversation. Tweek has no idea what, but he wishes he did. He’s tired of Craig looking out for him. He wants to do the same for Craig.

With a sigh, Tweek flops onto the kitchen table, chest and palms pressed to the surface. Eventually, he manages to doze back off. Despite the coffee and the awkward turn his and Craig’s conversation had taken, he sleeps easier this time.

 

**

 

Tweek doesn't see Craig for the rest of the day.

He’s gone by the time Tweek wakes up, having slipped out whilst Tweek was asleep (which Tweek is still surprised about).

The hours slip by, memories of the morning bleeding into a normal day. His shift is full of featureless customers and the low cut of Bebe’s top provides enough distraction to push the nightmares far from his mind.

Still, something has him feeling antsy. He can’t put his finger on what. He considers talking it through with Craig when he gets home, but pauses when he remembers that he won’t be there. It causes an odd sinking feeling in his stomach where he thought he’d feel relief.

“I’ll finish up,” Bebe’s voice interrupts his wandering thoughts.

Startled, he almost drops the broom he’s been using to methodically sweep the floor after closing.

“You don’t have to look so shocked,” Bebe laughs. “I’m capable of being nice. Besides, you have a cute priest to feed.”

Tweek pulls a face at that, shaking his head at her continued jabs about Craig’s apparent attractiveness. It bugs him every time, although he’s not fully sure why. Jealousy seems like the best bet, or at least makes the most sense. His crush gushing all over another guy, maybe. But that’s unlike him so it doesn’t feel right. He likes Bebe but he wouldn’t say he’s in love with her or anything, and Craig’s a gay priest so he’s the last person on earth to be a threat to any chance of a relationship with her.

Besides, when has Tweek ever thought of himself as good enough anyway? His track record with women has been one, long, uneventful journey full of anxiety and half hearted feelings that make him question whether he’s even capable of being in love.

“Earth to Tweek,” Bebe says too loudly.

Tweek jumps out of his skin, barely biting back an unmanly shriek that definitely would ruin any chances with her.

“Uh, sorry. What?” He says.

“You okay? You were miles away,” Bebe says, mildly concerned.

“Oh uh, y-yeah,” Tweek stutters in a way he hasn’t for a long time. “Jesus, sorry. I must have zoned out there.”

“And then some,” Bebe says with her perfect eyebrows a perfect pair of bows upon her forehead. “You feeling alright?”

Whether friendly or just being a responsible boss, Tweek is touched by her concern. It knocks any slight irritation about his thoughts being interrupted straight from his mind.

“I’m fine,” he says, honest. Because why wouldn’t he be? “And um, Craig’s away tonight.”

“Away?” Bebe asks, surprised. Her painted lips turn up into a devilish smile. “Is he at like, a priest convention? Do they have those? Do they go crazy on red wine and do Jesus karaoke?”

Despite the fact she means it all in good fun, Tweek feels a tug of irritation. “No,” he frowns. “They don’t have conventions. He’s just doing his job.”

Bebe blinks in surprise at the tone, her smile falling away. “Sorry if I offended you. I was just teasing.”

“I know,” Tweek sighs, feeling bad for being so annoyed with her. He’s lost as to why he feels so defensive. Maybe it’s just because Craig can’t catch a break. “I’m sorry. I just wish he _would_ let his hair down and have a bit of fun.”

“Worried about him?” Bebe asks, sympathetic.

Tweek pauses in his sweeping. Despite how weird things got between him and Craig the night before, he doesn’t care about him any less. “Yeah. I guess I am,” He says slowly, almost as if he’s admitting it for the first time.

“Want to talk about it?” Bebe offers.

Tweek shrugs in return. “Not much to say that I haven’t said before. He never takes a break and doesn’t do anything just for himself, you know? I know I can’t understand what is like to have that sort of relationship with God but sometimes I think the cost is so high. And I get that sacrifices are necessary, but I’ve seen so many bad people live such happy and fulfilling lives because they’re selfish. Craig gives all the time, but no one ever seems to give back to him.”

“I guess that’s the point of being a priest,” Bebe says in a gentle voice.

“I guess,” Tweek says. He puffs his cheeks out childishly. “The church is lame. Good priests should get like… sin days.”

“Sin days?” Bebe laughs.

“Yeah! Like they get to go and have meaningless sex and stuff themselves with cake and get into a drunken fight once a year,” Tweek grins.

Bebe laughs harder at that and it’s a truly lovely sound. “I can’t imagine the great Father Tucker getting up to no good.”

Tweek’s grin softens to a fond smile. “Weirdly, I can. I know that underneath the surface he’s got a naughty side. I’ve seen him laugh at Fail videos on YouTube.”

“You really care about him, don’t you?” Bebe asks suddenly.

“Well yeah… he saved my life and gave me somewhere to live when I was down on my luck,” Tweek answers, puzzled.

“I think it goes deeper than that,” Bebe smiles. “I think you care about him a lot because you like him as a person and not just as a priest who did something nice for you.”

Tweek blinks, caught by that. Surely the two things were the same, weren’t they?

Bebe takes the moment to gently ease the broom from his hands. “Stop overthinking it. I’m just saying that it’s nice. I think it’s cute. Now get home. The floor is clean enough.”

She finishes the floor with a wink and turns her back on him to make her way over to the storage area.

Tweek doesn’t hang around after that. His cheeks are burning and he doesn’t want her to see. But he isn’t quite sure if he’s embarrassed over her comment about him being cute, or her comment about how much he cares about Craig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! 
> 
> Thank you so much to those who have recently joined the story. I hope I can continue to entertain!
> 
> My friends have returned to the misty veils of continental Europe, but on the flip side, I'm heading off to Germany for a few days at the end of the month! I have told myself that I WILL use the 60 minutes in the air to get some more writing done!
> 
> Anyway I've pulled this back up to 65k words again, so I feel like I'm getting a small head start on it again. :^)
> 
> Thank you again for the lovely comments. I'm sorry I don't respond to them each time.


	13. Chapter 12

Morning breaks over Tweek gradually, sleep receding like a warm blanket gently being pulled away.

He’d thought that he’d struggle to sleep in Craig’s bed. That it’d be weird. Instead it had felt like heaven, mattress cradling his weary form and soft pillow curving around his head.

Craig’s sofa is comfortable enough, but after weeks of sleeping unable to fully stretch out, sleeping in a bed feels luxurious. Like he’s a King laying atop a mattress made of silk and goose feathers.

Tweek lets out a blissed-out sigh and stretches languidly, nuzzling his face into the pillow.

The scent of washing powder hits his nose. It’s a deep, clean scent that gives Tweek pause.

Craig must have changed the bedding. It makes sense, of course. Craig seems pretty well house trained and he has an odd love of laundry that Tweek finds adorable. The sentiment of finding anything Craig does adorable is an odd one, but honestly up until now Tweek has thought that only girls were capable of being cute. But Craig, with his six foot plus height and his surly expression somehow manages to pull it off in funny ways.

Tweek sniffs again. Then again. He isn’t sure why but something about the clean scent bothers him. He usually loves clean sheets. It’s a fresh scent that smells of wholesome family life in the same way that cookies and anti-bacterial spray does. It certainly smells better than the old sofa does. But -and here’s the kicker- something feels like it’s missing.

It takes Tweek’s sleep-addled brain a moment to realise it. It’s so simple and somehow so important that it makes his eyes crack open and a deep scowl marr his brow.

There’s a complete absence of Craig in this bed.

Beds tell stories. Through sickness and sleep, beds provide a safe haven for the jaded and the weary. It’s a place of respite and recovery and so very, very personal. Craig dreams in this bed, possibly even has nightmares. Prays, certainly. Has the odd thought he maybe shouldn’t. This bed supports Craig when he is tired of supporting everyone else.

Tweek feels like he should feel close to Craig in this bed. Like maybe it can divulge some tidbit that Tweek will so gratefully snatch up. But there’s nothing. Not even his slightest scent.

The thought is mildly alarming to Tweek. He doesn’t make a habit of going around sniffing people. It comes across as stalkerish and maybe a bit psychotic. But he’s undeniably frustrated by the lack of Craig’s presence. Screw that, he’s downright _irritated_ by it. He feels robbed of something precious. Like Craig is nothing more than a ghost, or a make-believe friend born of Tweek’s ridiculous imagination.

He lifts up onto his elbows with an annoyed huff. Sleep is racing away from him now, nestled away until night-time. The equal parts irritation and concern blend with the remaining morning incoherency and -on a total whim to prove that Craig really exists- Tweek reaches out and jerks the drawer in Craig’s bedside table open.

It’s empty but for some tissues. No lube, no condoms, not even a dirty magazine. What was Tweek expecting? Good Catholic boys don’t go to town on their dicks.

The irritation in him grows until coherency and decency snap back into place like a rubber band. Eyes widening, Tweek shoves the drawer shut once more, horrified with his actions. Craig trusted him to sleep in his bed and Tweek has betrayed that trust.

Still, as he lies in bed, hand clamped to his mouth, traitorous, little thoughts strike him. Idle ponderings about things he shouldn’t ponder about.

Craig’s _got_ to get off, surely. Tweek is pretty sure it’s impossible not to. Sure he isn’t as needy as he was when he was a teenager, but Tweek is pretty sure he’d go crazy if he didn’t jerk off at least a couple of times a week.

Hesitantly, despite knowing that he shouldn’t, Tweek reaches out for the drawer once again. He fingers the knob for a moment, then pulls gently, carefully sliding it open. The same sight greets him: a few sheafs of tissue. He carefully reaches in, pushing it aside, feeling around until his fingers find something smooth, silky and flat. A photograph?

Pinching it, Tweek lifts it, squinting as he holds it above his face.

Craig greets him back. Younger and unsmiling and definitely Craig. His deadpan expression is firmly in place, but Tweek swears he looks aglow with youthful exuberance. His cheeks are rosy and his eyes seem to be burning with mirth as he holds a beer bottle in one hand. He looks cute, Tweek notes. Younger Craig was adorable in that soft way that unscarred youths are.

He’s leaning into another young man, this one blond and boyishly handsome. He has a strong jaw and soft, brown eyes. Despite his shorter height, his arm is thrown around Craig’s shoulders as they stand inside what looks like a club. A  _gay_ club, or at least Tweek assumes from the rainbow flags hanging in the background of the shot, and the half cut-off guy in tiny, latex shorts. 

Tweek flips the photo, but no nugget of insight greets him. It isn’t dated. There’s just nothing but blank grey-white.

“I guess you’re Thomas,” Tweek says aloud, holding the photo aloft. Tweek isn’t an expert on relationships, but he thinks they look good together. They clearly care for one another.

Briefly, Tweek entertains the fantasy of reaching out to Thomas. He could hunt him down through the art of social media stalking and invite him back into Craig’s life and watch him sweep Craig off his feet again. But he dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. All that would do is cause heartache. Life isn’t a fairytale and Craig has made his choice. Thomas has probably moved on by now too. It’s been years, after all.

Still, Tweek searches the photograph. Craig’s clad in a black t-shirt and what looks like a blue chullo hat. He doesn’t particularly stand out, as understated then as he is now. He must have filled out more over the years, the lankiness that he carries now looking downright gawky back then. If Tweek had bumped into him ten years ago or more, would Craig have made Tweek look twice? Probably not. But now, knowing what sort of person Craig is, Tweek feels so much fondness for this fresh-faced college student on a night out with his boyfriend.

Dropping the photograph to his chest with a sigh, Tweek wonders what it was like between them. They look happy in the photo. Comfortable. Thomas’ big smile and Craig’s slanted eyes speak volumes of their enjoyment of each other’s company. Tweek has no idea what Craig was like back then, but if he was even half as kind as he is now, Tweek fancies that he made a great boyfriend.

Closing his eyes, Tweek tries to picture it. Craig coming in from lecture and bringing food because he can’t cook for shit. Craig fondly ripping on Thomas for whatever he ripped on him for. Craig scooping up armfuls of their laundry, sitting around in their underwear and playing first person shooters on the PlayStation. Craig making his bad coffee to cheer Thomas up after a hard lecture.

What of the other elements too? Had Craig been a good lover too? The thought makes Tweek flush and open his eyes.

As a straight man, Tweek is naïve to how things work between two guys. He knows the basics, but he’s never found a girl who wanted to do anal, and he never thought to push. So his knowledge is all very much theory-based. It sounds uncomfortable, but once one of the girls he was dating stuck her finger up his ass when she was going down on him and it had felt sort of cool once the surprise had faded.

Did Craig once suck cock? The thought leaps unbidden into his mind. Tweek can't imagine it, Craig on his knees for some guy rather than God. But he probably did it. Oral is pretty standard sexual fayer right? Did he enjoy it? Or was it just a duty, like his prayers?

Tweek had always enjoyed getting his dick sucked but depending on the girl he was with, some looked ready to cum from it themselves and some looked bored. Being with the ones who were enjoying it was definitely a better experience. Craig being so intense leads Tweek to considering that Craig might have been like those girls who’d enjoyed it. Especially since he seems to have had a lot of feelings towards Thomas.

The image of Craig, on his knees jumps to Tweek’s mind. His expression so like the one from two nights ago, eyes burning with something passionate and intense as a swollen cock lays cradled between his lips.

Tweek barely has time to register the slick, swollen lips and dark lusty eyes before he’s jerking upright into a rigid sit. He clasps a hand to his mouth, horrified by where his wandering thoughts have led him. Worse still, his limp dick gives a small, interested twitch in his pants which would be extraordinarily confusing if Tweek wasn’t preoccupied with feeling disgusted with himself.

Disgust turns to anger, all very much directed at himself. After all Craig has done for him, after the path that Craig himself has chosen, Tweek can still find it in himself to objectify him. And why? Because he’s a gay man? Tweek had hoped he was better than that. He’s trying so hard to be.

Somewhere inside him, dark and base, a stray, dry whisper pushes the thought of beating off into his head. It causes Tweek’s stomach to roil in revulsion and arousal. It’s disgraceful and dirty, and wicked and sexy all at once. The sin of masturbating in the bed of a good, honest priest (who may or may not have once enjoyed the feeling of a cock in his throat.). Sullying it with the smell sex to mask that damn washing powder scent that makes Craig seem like a ghost.

Forcing it aside, Tweek springs out of bed and shoves the photograph back into the drawer. Without a second glance at the screwed-up sheets, Tweek hurries out of the room and heads towards the bathroom. With each step, the swirl of confusing and revolting desire fades, only to be replaced with a quiet, numb fear.

Is he not fully clean yet, even though Craig had promised he is? Did some trace of Urobach remain within him like some malignant cancer not fully cut out? Or were those thoughts his own dark and selfish desires?

Tweek is honestly not sure which one is scarier.

 

**

 

Tweek knows that he’s irritable the moment that he walks through Harbuck’s doors. It’s not a great start to the shift, made all the worse by the fact that Bebe’s not on shift with him.

Alison barely says hello as he tags in, tossing an apron at him the moment he steps through the bar.

“I gotta get my kid. He’s been found with pot _again._  I’m gonna kick the snot out of that little shit,” she snarls as she marches past Tweek.

Despite the fact that Tweek knows it isn’t directed at him, it’s one of those days so he ends up taking it personally anyway. He’s got an eight hour shift ahead with no Bebe, and the fact that he got a boner in Craig’s bed over some pretty edgy shit plaguing his mind. His capacity for optimism and being grateful for his current life is looking a little dry. So he’s going to have to work even harder to keep that damn friendly customer service smile on his face today. Fucking super.

He channels his negative energy into scrubbing every surface in reach, well beyond the usual requirement to keep them sanitary. He polishes until everything is gleaming, pausing only to fetch orders with a grimace. He honestly wants to scream fuck off to every ‘ _soya- no coconut milk, no, no soya. Actually no. No. Coconut milk’_ but he values his job and at least it gives him something to focus on.

After around three hours and seven cups of coffee, the clouds finally break and Tweek slowly emerges from his foul mood. He’s known the entire time that he’s really only angry at himself, but honestly, he’s a little scared too.

Why on earth did he act like that this morning? He hasn’t got laid in quite a while, sure, and jerking off has been limited but he’s thirty now, not a horny teenager. Why did he stoop as low as to sexualise his friend? His _saviour?_ Regardless of how confusing all of that is, it’s downright hurtful to Craig. Finding entertainment in picturing Craig in a life he’s rejected is cruel. If he ever found out…

He’d be sad, Tweek realises, slowly lowering the cloth that he's scrubbing with as his heart sinks right along with it. Perhaps he'd be angry too, but Tweek feels that mostly, Craig would be sad. That alone is reason enough to berate himself. Tweek is not a nasty person. He’s suffered enough cruelty in his life to not want to dish it out himself. And Craig of all people deserves to be treasured and supported. He doesn’t have to know about one, stray thought. Doesn’t have to know that Tweek reacted weirdly to it.

Tweek’s job is to remain at his side, keeping him fed and chasing away the loneliness. If Tweek can do that then he’s at least repaid one millionth of what he owes Craig.

His newfound resolve is knocked by the sudden ‘ _Ahem_ ’ that breaks through his dazed thoughts.

A heavy man is leaning against the countertop, arms folded casually.

“Welcome to Harbucks, may I take your order?” Tweek says with a polished grimace.

“I think you can help me with much more than that,” the man says cryptically.

“Excuse me?” Tweek says, a little lost.

“Eric Cartman,” the man says by way of explanation. He thrusts a card at Tweek between his index and middle fingers like he’s holding a cigarette. “You’ve probably heard of me. I’m a pretty big deal around here.”

Tweek takes a moment to squint at the card. It reads ‘ERIC CARTMAN. INVESTIGATIVE PROFESSIONAL. SEEKER OF THE TRUTH.’

“You’re a… uh,” he pauses. Glances at the card again. “A PI?”

“PI?” Eric snarls, sounding aghast. “Are you serious? Do I look like a fucking PI? Do I look that lame?” Before Tweek can answer, he blusters on. “No, dude. I run a blog that covers a series of hard-hitting exposés. Seriously. _PI?”_

“Uh?” Tweek responds, unsure as to what the difference is, or why it’s so insulting. “I’m sorry?”

“You can’t help not knowing the difference. You had 2.3 grade point average in high school after all.”

Tweek goes cold all over. Somewhere beneath the ice he definitely feels insulted, since he’s proud he received an average enough GPA despite battling meth addiction and chronic anxiety. But much, much more alarming than that is how the hell this stranger knows about that.

“What-” he cuts himself off, reminding himself that he’s still at work and that his shrieking has made some of the customers startle. Gritting his teeth, he forces his voice into a low hiss. “What the hell, man? Who are you?”

“Eric Cartman, duh,” Eric scoffs. “And you’re Tweek Tweak of South Park, Colorado. Thirty years old, college drop-out, three relationships of note, and -until six months ago- still living with mommy and daddy and working in their coffee shop. Until suddenly you turn up here, in Denver, living with one Father Craig Tucker.” Eric finishes, punctuating his point with jazz hands.

Tweek takes a long moment to stare at him. A nasty, cold feeling creeps through him. Distantly, it reminds him of how he felt whenever the demon touched him inside. A dirty, sickening violation.

“What do you want?” Tweek says after a too-long pause. He wants his voice to come out strong and threatening, but instead it just sounds breathless and weak.

“Don’t look so worried, dude!” Eric grins. It’s obvious that he’s enjoying seeing Tweek distressed. It makes him look like a predator, causing Tweek’s stomach roll with disgust. “I’m not interested in you. You’re pretty boring, man. I mean there’s rumours back where you’re from that you went feral but you don’t look like you got rabies to me. You know how those little towns are. I’m actually more interested in your Father Tucker.”

“What?” Tweek scowls, straightening defensively. “Why?”

“Many reasons. Let’s just say that he’s party to some information I’m after, but he’s got some lame excuse as to why he can’t divulge.”

“Information?” Tweek replies, lost now.

“Information is valuable Tweeky. The truth is an awesome weapon in the war on lies. Let’s just say that there’s someone I hate. He’s a bad guy, Tweekers. The _worst_ . He spends every day exploiting people with his little Jewy manipulations and then he laughs about it. I want to tear that guy down, Tweekerooni. I want to tear him down and do the world a service and I have something that can do it. But right now it’s a suspicion, you see? And I can hurt him plenty with suspicion but what I want is _proof_.”

Tweek’s seen enough to very much doubt that this guy has good intentions. He’s a bully, pure and simple. The leaning over the bar to look imposing, the stupid nicknames… Tweek’s put down enough guys like him in his lifetime to know what he is. But he’s an adult now. He can’t solve this with his fists, and something tells him this guy is more dangerous than some jackass taunting him for being ‘Twitchy Tweeky.’

With all this in mind, Tweek takes a steadying breath and squares his shoulders. May as well try to look imposing right back.

“How is it you think I can help? I’m just a barista and I’m trying to work here.”

Eric glances over his shoulder. “You got no customers so you’re fine to talk,” He says dismissively. “You can help me plenty though. It’s a chain, you see. This asshole has a _friend_ . We’ll call him Marshall. Now _Marshall_ knows plenty that can hurt this guy but he’s a pretty devout Catholic. As a devout catholic, he likes to spill his guts, including key information to a priest. That priest is named Father Craig Tucker. Father Craig Tucker has sworn some bullshit sacred vow not to spill secrets. But Father Craig Tucker just recently started living with a guy he has no prior connection to. You follow?”

Tweek’s eyes widen considerably. He does follow and it makes his blood run cold. “What makes you think that _I_ can get information out of him? We never talk about confession.”

“I’m not asking for something as clumsy as that. Just give me something that I can use to get him sharing. I can make it worth your while. You’re homeless right? There’s got to be something you want. Drugs? Money?”

A hot splash of molten anger washes over Tweek. “Excuse me?” He shrieks, unable to keep his voice low. He doesn't care about upsetting patrons this time. 

“Come on, Tweek. I got plenty on you already, but infiltrating the church is like trying to get into the pentagon. How do you think they cover up so many child sex scandals? Help me and I help you. You’re closer to him and from what I can see, you haven’t known each other that long. I don’t want to hurt him. Just persuade him to tell me what I want to know.”

“Get out,” Tweek snarls.

Eric’s entire demeanour turns to one of surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Craig is a good man. Don’t even think about fucking with him,” Tweek says, hissing with barely restrained fury. “Get out. You’re barred from service here.”

For a moment Eric looks furious himself, as if insulted by some major slight. But then he settles into a look of amusement. “Sure thing, it’s not like the coffee here isn’t garbage. I’ll make sure that ends up on my blog. Oh and by the way, give the good Father my condolences. If _my_ entire family had been massacred by the Colorado State Killer _I_ certainly wouldn’t have turned to God. He’s a stronger man than me.”

Tweek’s enraged expression falls away at that. He stares at Eric instead, dumbfounded as his stomach feels like it’s dropping to the floor. “What?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? It’s not like it’s hard to find out. Google it!” Eric sings out with a cheerful wave.

The patrons in the store grumble once he’s gone, complaining to one another about the ruckus that the big man has caused. None seem to notice that Tweek looks like he wants to keel over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bombshell.
> 
> (Sorry for short chapter. I have no excuses and I didn't reach my agreed 70k target before posting ((lo siento)).


	14. Chapter 13

Tweek does Google it.

He immediately wishes that he hadn’t, scrolling through article after article that the search brings up.

Still, he searches and he reads, spending his lunch break learning about the tragic tale of the Colorado State Killer and his seven victims. He’d started off as a burglar and had moved on to killing when he’d taken out a husband and his wife in what was believed to be a botched breaking and entering attempt.

By the time he’d reached his third set of victims, he’d obviously finessed his approach. He’d preyed on a family of three: the Tucker Family of Boulder, Colorado. Mother: Laura, 44; Father: Thomas, 46; and daughter: Patricia, 16. All had died of gunshot wounds, the father and mother dispatched in their sleep. The daughter had woken up and tried to run, receiving three gunshots in the back for the effort. They’d left behind one son: Craig Tucker, 20, who’d been away at the University of Arizona.

The only small blessing (if it could even be called that) was that Patricia’s running had stirred up something in the sadistic son of a bitch and that his next victims had suffered even more at his hands. It didn’t make Tweek feel any better, but at least the Tucker family hadn’t been forced to go through _too_ much suffering before their lives were selfishly snuffed out.

Instead the suffering had fallen to Craig. Twenty years old and a life full of promise gone along with the lives of an entire family. Tweek can only guess at what happened next from the nuggets of insight Craig has offered him. Craig probably couldn’t keep up with his studies, probably started relying too heavily on alcohol around that point. Maybe lost Thomas, maybe pushed him away. Somehow ended up finding strength in God, or just found a place to take him in and give him purpose.

And here Tweek sits, sniffing back tears on his lunch break, his cheap phone gripped in one hand with grizzly details littering the screen.

He learnt a while ago that the world isn’t a fair place. That karma, much as he believes in it, can take it’s sweet time in rewarding the just and punishing the selfish. No matter how he looks at it, Craig’s been dealt a shitty hand. At the same time though, Tweek can understand why Craig’s faith is so strong. Why Craig has accepted sacrificing the touch of another, where someone like Tweek finds the thought incomprehensible.

It was powerful enough to get him through the darkest of times. Maybe that’s what drives Craig to give back so much. Maybe Craig simply couldn’t tolerate the thought of wasting away, lonely and lost.

Just like that, despite how his heart aches for him, Tweek feels another explosion of pride over knowing Craig. He’s even stronger than Tweek imagined. If he wasn’t already Tweek’s hero, he would be now. Now more than ever, he can’t wait to see Craig again. No matter how weird or confusing things have been recently, Tweek knows that he wants to see him badly. Wants to take care of Craig like how Craig has taken care of him.

With a newfound resolve, Tweek slides back to his feet and wipes his eyes. He sends a cursory glance towards the mirror, satisfied enough that he won’t scare off any customers. Then he heads out of the staff room and returns to the counter with a broad smile that he doesn’t feel.

He wears that smile like a badge of honour throughout his shift. Where this morning he’d been grateful for the opportunity to lounge around in a bona fide bed, he is now frustrated at how late it’ll be when he arrives home. Craig should be home when he gets in. Tweek wishes he didn’t have to come home to an empty house. He wants to… he isn’t even sure what. He just wants Craig to never feel lonely again. It’s a pretty naive thought, but the strength of his own intention surprises him so much that part of him believes that he can make it happen.

Time marches on at an achingly slow pace. Every glance at the clock hanging over the entrance seems to make the seconds tick by slower. Every customer that Tweek fixes his perfect service smile onto is faceless after his encounter with Eric Cartman. By six he wonders if Craig is home yet. By seven he sorely wishes that he’d left some food out for him.

When the clock eventually hits eight, Tweek gives the remaining customers a polite ten minutes before he starts sweeping up obnoxiously around them. The remaining two -a pair of hipsters with apparently no better place to be- hold steadfastly for another ten minutes until they pull their things together with exaggerated scoffs and proclaim that they’re going to find somewhere cool to hang out. Tweek suspects that they’ll probably end up in the nearest McDonalds.

By some miracle (and some subtle, extra fastidious cleaning throughout his shift) Tweek is done by half-past eight. His colleague, a guy named Firkle of all things, watches him with his usual air of disinterest. Tweek’s had to bite his tongue about the guy’s total lack of help on more than one occasion this shift, but then he surprises Tweek by stepping back into the shop after his twelth cigarette break.

“You look like you got somewhere to be. I’ll close up if you give me the keys,” he says in his usual, dispassionate tone.

“Are you sure?” Tweek says, feeling ridiculously grateful, despite the fact that finishing up will only take another ten minutes at this point.

Firkle shrugs listlessly. “Yeah. It’s too fucking early to do something good anyway, so you might as well go off and do your conformist shit.”

“Uh,” Tweek says, not sure if he should take it as an insult or not. “Well, thanks anyway,” he nods, untying his apron and hanging it neatly on its designated hook. He grabs his keys and phone from the staff room and rushes out before Firkle can change his mind.

He picks up the pace when he leaves the shop, starting off in a swift walk and hitting a full on run before he even knows it. A hysterical giggle bubbles in his throat at the thought of how ridiculous he must look, high-tailing it down the street in the latter stages of dusk. He must look like the devil himself is chasing him. If any police saw him now, they’d surely assume that Tweek was the culprit of something illegal. The thought should scare him into coming to his senses, but instead it just makes him laugh out loud. He immediately hates himself for it, laughing like a loon when he's carrying such horrible knowledge within him, but the signals get confused and he finds himself laughing harder.

By the time he reaches his bus stop, he’s so breathless he almost retches. He keels over, leaning heavily against the shelter to pant air back into his lungs. The mildly concerned look one of the women waiting at the stop is wearing forces him to calm down a little bit, although he still his lungs still burn as if they're full of cigarette smoke. It causes his lip to twitch wildly, which causes the woman even more concerned, but for once Tweek doesn’t care what others think of him. All he can think about is getting home.

In what feels like divine intervention, Tweek’s bus arrives only two minutes later. Briefly Tweek considers if this is karma working on his side for once, or whether Craig’s God is the one to thank. Either way, all this means that he should be home before nine, and that feels significant for some reason. As if pre-nine is early and after-nine is late somehow. Like Craig will have less time being alone that way.

He leaps onto the bus and grabs the first seat he finds. The occupant in the adjoining seat shoots him an annoyed look, looking away with a scowl and focusing out of the window. Tweek ignores it, checking the time and bouncing his foot impatiently, as if that will somehow make time move faster. He stops a couple of minutes later when his neighbour shoots him a pointed look.

“Sorry,” he mutters, forcing his leg to still. He keeps his toes wriggling though, feeling like he’s won a little victory when he doesn’t get any more glares for it.

As the bus lurches it’s last mile or so to home, Tweek stares out of the window, losing himself in his own thoughts and the strange desperation to get home. He's full of jittery, nervous energy and, somehow, excitement too. He can’t remember the last time he was excited to see a person. Maybe Santa when he was really little. Perhaps Monique Green when she’d invited him over when her parents were out and Tweek was pretty sure he was about to get laid for the first time. Possibly his mom, back when he’d believed that she loved him as much as she loved his dad. Maybe Craig himself as Tweek sucked in a breath and pushed his way into a church for the first time in twenty years, all to meet the hero who’d saved his soul.

It’s weird. He shouldn’t feel excited. His head is full of images of a slaughtered family and his heart is broken for Craig. It's too much to comprehend. The sort of stuff that happens in crime dramas and news stories that used to keep him awake at night, dreaming of murders and child abductors with his damaged, over-imaginative brain. None of it is real. Except this time it _is_ real and instead of wanting to run away from Craig, instead of dreading ever bringing this subject up with him, he wants to run  _to_ Craig.  Because at some time during the day, Tweek had somehow decided that he was going to try to start repaying his debt to Craig. He doesn’t even fully know how yet, but it’s been so long since he had such a sense of purpose that he can’t help but feel excited by it. After spending so long ambling through life, waiting for things to happen, this newfound sense of purpose is exhilarating.

Tweek is so distracted by his thoughts that he almost misses his stop. He jolts up from his seat, running for the door as it begins to close, much to the mixed amusement and irritation of the other passengers. Luckily, the driver notices him at the last moment and flicks the door back open. With a thanks and a short wave, Tweek jumps off the step and onto the street.

He can see from the bus stop that the church is sitting dark, so he figures that Craig has returned to the rectory. The thought pleases Tweek. At least Craig is probably relaxing for once. There’s no guarantee of that, but if he’s not at the church, there’s a higher chance that he’s watching something on Netflix, or eating a bowl of cereal. It makes him hurry his stride once again, switching to an easy jog that doesn’t bust his lungs this time.

Arriving home at four minutes to nine feels like an absolute victory. He lets himself in, almost falling over his shoes in his effort to toe them off, arms swinging wildly as he tries to fling his coat off like an unwanted skin. When he looks up from narrowly avoiding faceplanting into the wall, he notices Craig staring at him. His mouth is hanging open from where he’s paused in lifting a slice of toast into it, and his eyes are stricken with mild alarm.

Unable to help himself, Tweek lurches forwards and pulls Craig into a tight hug. He hears the slight crunch of toast from where he’s squished Craig’s arm against his chest, but doesn’t honestly care about the crumbs. Instead, he rests his head against Craig’s shoulder and squeezes him firmly with his sinewy strength as Craig’s form goes lax with surprise.

“I missed you,” Tweek breathes without thinking.

Craig goes stiff in his grasp, all hard edges where a moment ago he was almost boneless. Tweek knows that he’s alarmed Craig but he doesn’t let go, squeezing his form instead and drawing a wheezing grunt out of Craig.

“Uh… everything okay?” Craig asks a moment later, sounding bewildered.

“Yeah,” Tweek says softly. “Well no, a lot of things aren’t okay, but everything’s okay.”

“That makes… total sense,” Craig says, still sounding confused. He lifts his free arm, patting Tweek gently on the back. “We can talk about it, if you want?”

Tweek shakes his head, inadvertantly rubbing his forehead into Craig’s shoulder in a crude nuzzle. “It’s not about me,” Tweek says.

“It’s not?” Craig replies. Tweek hears another crunch of the toast as it squishes further into his shirt.

“Not this time,” Tweek says. Knowing that he really should pull back to give Craig a chance to escape, Tweek pulls back from the hug. Craig shifts, but doesn’t step back, lifting his now freed arm to inspect his toast with a grimace, casually placing it on the nearest surface after a moment’s consideration. Despite the circumstances, Tweek is amused to see that his cheeks have bloomed red with a blush.

“Okay, is this something I should be concerned about?” Craig asks after clearing his throat, watching as Tweek brushes crumbs off his shirt.

“I think a little, yes,” Tweek answers honestly. “Maybe I’m just being dramatic, but I’d rather you be able to protect yourself if you need to.”

The confusion almost visibly lifts off Craig. He straightens and assumes a business-like expression. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go to the living room and sit down.”

Tweek nods and follows close behind him, feeling his chest swell at Craig’s instant trust in Tweek’s judgement. Craig chooses his usual seat, watching as Tweek chooses the sofa seat closest to him. Tweek can’t help but notice that Craig is forcing himself to relax, but his pose is still rigid. His nostrils flare with suppressed heavy breathing and his eyebrows are set in a sharp frown. Tweek considers for a moment what he must have looked like when that police officer showed up at his dorm room, all those years ago.

He realises that he’s staring when Craig clears his throat.

“Well?” he prompts softly.

Tweek nods and swallows. He’s never been good at talking about important things. His mouth suddenly feels as if it’s full of cotton wool. A panicked thought streaks across his consciousness like a firework, exploding with alarm at how he’d ever thought he could do this. How _he_ of all people could be the one to talk to someone like this, about this sort of thing.

But then he glances back to Craig, taking in his rigid posture. He recalls Craig’s words, spoken what feels like years ago, back when he told Tweek that no one really has their shit as together as they make it seem.

“Okay so I’m not sure where to start,” Tweek says. He pauses. Frowns as his own hesitance. “Actually, I think the best place to begin is at work today. This guy walked into the shop today asking questions about you.”

It’s Craig’s turn to frown. “Questions? What kind of questions?”

“About whether you talked to me about any confessions people give you,” Tweek says. “I told him that you didn’t, but he put quite a lot of pressure on. He, um. Knew things.”

“He knew things? Like what?” Craig asks. His entire posture and expression remains unchanged, but Tweek knows him intimately enough by now to recognise the slight creep of apprehension in Craig’s voice.

“He- he knew a lot about me. Like, personal stuff about my life. I think he was trying to scare me into talking, but he didn’t seem to know anything about the demon, so I honestly don’t care what he knows. I don’t think he knows anything that would cause Bebe to fire me so don’t you dare start worrying about me when I gotta tell you about how it affects you. I’m only telling you this because I want you to know everything, man. I don’t need you feeling bad or guilty that he knows shit about me.”

Craig blinks and looks away as if caught in the act of doing just that. “Okay, fine,” he says. “But I’m not happy that you’ve been targeted because of me.”

“He’s a bully. I know how to handle bullies. I banned him from the fucking shop. I’ll just ignore the asshole if he ever tries again,” Tweek says hotly. He calms a moment later though, growing serious once more. “He said he’s after dirt on you. Not those exact words, but he said he’d found it hard to get anything out of the church, so he’s been looking. And he seemed pretty determined, Craig. As much of a fucking prick as he was, he seemed to know his stuff. So I had to tell you. I need you to know because we gotta figure out how to handle this guy.”

Craig is silent for a long moment. In the quiet of the living room, Tweek fidgets with the hem of his shirt, worrying at the fabric with his thumb and forefingers.

“Did you get his name?” Craig finally asks.

Tweek’s eyes dart back up to him. He licks his lips, dry with sudden nerves. “Um. Eric Cartman. He’s kind of a… _heavy_ guy. Has a funny accent.”

“Fuck,” Craig says softly. It catches Tweek’s attention and draws his brows into a frown.

“You know him?” Tweek asks.

“Not intimately. Thank God,” Craig says. Tweek knows he means it too. Thanking God isn’t just a turn of phrase for Craig. “He came into the church a few weeks back. Got right in my face, asking about confessions. He was specifically asking about one of my congregation, claiming to be his friend. I believed it too, because he was there with the guy he was asking about in person.”

Tweek winces. “Wow. Some friend,” he breathes.

Craig nods slowly. “Yeah. I don’t know if he’s delusional or just an asshole, but he wanted to reveal the truth apparently.”

“Is the guy some sort of politician or something?” Tweek asks, eyes widening in realisation. Without being able to help himself, he starts scanning his mind for anyone of any real impact who could live close by and maybe attends Craig’s church, but his mind draws a blank.

“I can't say, Tweek,” Craig reminds him. “But this guy definitely comes across as petty, rather than a real investigative journalist. What he’s after seems to be personal, rather than something that’s genuine in the interests of the wider public.”

“Great. He sounds like a wonderful person,” Tweek says. He feels himself growing angrier by the second. He’s a lifelong fan of conspiracy theories and myth-busting. He finds himself irritated by this Eric Cartman’s willingness to disrupt the lives of others for some sort of selfish gain, rather than the greater good.

“So…” Craig starts, breaking the lull in conversation. Pauses and reconsiders. Then reconsiders again. “Do you think he knows I’m gay?”

As soon as he says it, Tweek feels guilty. Whilst he’s been lamenting Eric Cartman’s misguided, selfish pursuit of truth, Craig’s been worrying about how this guy might possibly fuck around with his life.

“No,” Tweek says with certainty.

“Really?” Craig pushes. Tweek can tell that he’s deliberately making himself sound calm.

“Really,” Tweek says, nodding. “I don’t know this guy but he wasn’t like, _subtle_ or anything. I’m sure if he’d known you’re gay, he would’ve said it. Or made some lame joke about it.”

Craig allows himself a long exhale. It’s it only visible sign of relief. “Okay, yeah.”

“Do…” Tweek trails off, unsure how to ask such a thing. “Do you think if it came out that you’re gay, it be a problem?”

Craig scoffs at that. Tweek flinches back, feeling stupid.

On seeing Tweek’s flinch, Craig softens slightly. “Sorry, that was- it was lame of me,” he says, meaning it. “Technically it shouldn’t be an issue. The church know, I don’t practice and I reject whatever urges I get.”

Craig falls silent then. Tweek waits, expecting him to continue but he doesn’t. The silence that follows feels awkward, but Tweek thinks that it’s just on his end. Craig looks like he’s not even in the room, eyes spaced out as his thoughts take him further and further away.

‘ _Further away from_ me,’ Tweek thinks suddenly, unbidden. It startles him out of his awkwardness, searching Craig’s face for anything that might provide him with some sort of insight.

“Craig?” he prompts, reluctant to break the silence, but feeling very much like he needs to. ‘ _Come back to me,’_ he wants to add, but doesn’t.

Craig stirs, almost visibly shaking himself from his reverie. He hums softly, tapping the arm of his tatty, old armchair with his long fingers.

“None of that matters,” Craig states with an edge of defeat in his voice. It takes Tweek a moment that Craig’s been lost inside his own head, figuring out his answer. “Some people will still hate me for what I am. They won’t think I’m right to be their priest. Or dream up stupid shit about how I look at male parishioners. All it takes is for a rumour to start for some to want me gone.”

Tweek honestly can’t think of what to say in response to that. The sinking feeling in his stomach leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He isn’t sure whether he feels anger, or pity. Probably something between the two. Life is consistently not fair. People like Craig deserve happiness. They deserve to be left alone to live the best life that they can. They don’t deserve people like Eric Cartman poking their nose into their business.

“Could he find out?” Tweek asks, watching as Craig’s fist curls and uncurls upon the arm of the chair.

“If he’s as good as he thinks he is,” Craig shrugs. “I might not have been with anyone for a long time, but I was totally out in high school and college. If he’s serious, he’ll find out plenty about me.”

Without thinking, Tweek goes to respond. “I-” he starts, quickly strangling the words before he blurts them. It’s too late though. Craig’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“What?” Craig says with an edge of demand in his voice. A moment later, his expression softens at the edges, understanding dawning on him. “What does he already know?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Tweek replies, his voice coming out weaker than before as a cold sweat breaks out over his skin. A thrill of panic runs through him, electric and nauseating. It’s sickeningly familiar, right down to the way that his heart feels like it’s fluttering and his tongue feels too big for his mouth.

“Tweek,” Craig says in a tone that’s unfamiliar. Sharp. “Tell me.”

“I-” Tweek tries again but his stupid tongue doesn’t want to work properly. _‘Stop being ridiculous!’_ he scolds himself, but it’s no use. His thoughts are like a startled bird, careening nonsensically within the cage of his brain. Their wings flutter against the bars, wingtips creating draughts that leave him cold.

The world stalls for a moment. There’s a blip because suddenly Craig isn’t in his chair any more and is instead crouched in front of Tweek. His hands are on Tweek’s face, cool and dry. Tweek honestly cannot remember how he got there. Or even when. Maybe he always was.

‘ _I’m in the Matrix!’_ Tweek wants to shriek, and the thought is so ludicrous that it almost makes him laugh, except he can’t breathe so he makes an odd wheezing sound instead.

“Breathe,” Craig is saying in a low, calm voice, over and ever. “Breathe. You’re okay, Tweek.”

Tweek thinks telling him to breathe is ridiculous until he realises that he isn’t breathing at all. He’s gasping, but his chest feels too tight and his throat feels like he’s ready to puke.

Beneath the erratic thoughts and the terror that he’s going to choke to death, a solitary thought strikes him, accompanied by strong disappointment. He’s letting Craig down. Craig is the one who needs him right now. All Tweek had to do was hold his shit together. All he had to do was be brave and tell this man who’s changed his world and given him _everything_ that some creep with a vendetta knows about his dead family. He can’t even manage that. He’s just a let-down all over again.

“Tweek,” Craig says again, gentle. “Come on, focus on my voice. Okay? Breathe with me in, and out.”

Tweek nods into the hands cradling his face, reaching out for those words and gripping on like its a lifeline. Amidst the drunken dizziness, Tweek’s gaze fixes on the rise and fall of Craig’s chest. His lungs burn when he takes his first, shaky breath in, holding it only for a moment before he has to expel it. The next breath is easier than the first. And then easier again. And it keeps getting easier until suddenly his lungs remember to breathe again and instinct kicks back in and assumes control once more.

“There you are,” Craig says with a tiny, but hugely reassuring smile.

“What happened?” Tweek asks, breathless. It feels like he’s coming to the surface after being submerged his entire life.

“I think you had a panic attack,” Craig says in that same warm, calm tone of voice. He slowly slips his hands away from Tweek’s face, but he doesn’t shift from his squat.

“Jesus Christ,” Tweek mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. He hasn’t had a panic attack in years and it happens right now. The jolt of guilt he feels makes the queasiness in his stomach roil and he has to swallow hard to keep it down. “I’m sorry,” he says, almost meekly.

“You’re sorry?” Craig frowns. “For what? You can’t help having a panic attack. I shouldn’t have pushed you like I did-”

“You didn’t push me,” Tweek interrupts. “I’m not sure why I freaked out like I did, but you honestly did nothing wrong I just,” he pauses. Takes another breath. The fluttery feeling is still there, but his resolve is stronger this time. “He _does_ know some stuff about you already. Not that you’re gay but-” he bites his lip, unsure how to put it.

But he’s said enough. Craig’s face takes on a sad sort of knowing look. Regardless, he studies Tweek’s eyes and asks softly: “What did he know about me, Tweek?”

“Your family,” Tweek surrenders, speaking softly.

Craig’s expression doesn’t really change but for the way his lip tugs down in the faintest tremble. With a slow nod, Craig heaves himself to his feet and moves to plop his ass heavily down right next to Tweek, sitting next to him on the sofa.

They grow silent once again. Craig seems lost for words and Tweek can’t honestly think of a single thing to say. He doesn’t even know where to look. He wants to offer comfort but doesn’t know how without appearing awkward about it. When minutes have slipped by and Craig speaks up again, he doesn’t say what Tweek expects him to at all.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper. The mixture of regret and guilt in his voice make Tweek grimace.

“No!” bursts out of him before he can stop it. “No, no, no!” Unthinkingly Tweek reaches out, seizing Craig’s hands in a fierce grip. “This is _not_ something you should be sorry for _at all_. You were never under any obligation to tell me. Not something that painful.”

Craig looks silently at their hands, tangled together on his lap. He’s unresponsive for a long moment, so still that Tweek can barely see him breathing. But then he turns his hands over, pressing his palms to Tweek’s and curling his fingers around them and gripping on tight.

Not for the first time, Tweek finds himself marveling at Craig’s hands. They’re big and masculine, not like Tweek’s own spindly, knobbly fingers. The darker hue of Craig’s skin stands out more noticeably against the chalk-white of Tweek’s own skin. His nails are short and neat, unlike Tweek’s ragged, bitten-down nails and rough, reddened skin, abused from years of absent minded nibbling. Oddly, with slow realisation Tweek sees themselves in their joined hands. Craig’s outwardly neat and orderly facade hiding more than anyone could guess reaching out for someone like Tweek, a human disaster to support him. And for once, Tweek doesn't feel like he’s coming up short.

“I’ll protect you,” Tweek says suddenly.

At his words, Craig looks up, broken from his own distant thoughts. “What?”

Tweek colours, embarrassment hot and immediate. A nasty voice taunts him, asking him who he thinks he is to suggest that _he_ be capable of keeping another human being safe when he can barely look after himself.

But then he looks at Craig. _Really_ looks at him and although he can’t be sure how much of it is wishful thinking, or the desperate and sad desire to feel needed, Tweek is _sure_ that he sees a glimmer of hope in Craig’s expression. He isn’t sure, but for the first time in a while, Craig looks like some of the weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

“I’ll protect you,” Tweek says again, finally. He can still feel the blush on his cheeks, but it burns less brightly this time. “I know you can take care of yourself, but let me help you fight this asshole too.”

Craig nods slowly, stiffly. “Okay,” he begrudgingly agrees. “But don’t do anything to put yourself at risk, okay? Nothing he can do or say will make me break my vow of silence on the matter. If he comes after me, we’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah,” Tweek smiles. “We will.”

Craig nods again. He lets out a long sigh, looking and sounding like a deflating balloon, but Tweek fancies that he can see a glimmer of relief there too. He doesn’t pull his hands away, leaving them cradled by Tweek’s in the space between them. Tweek isn’t sure why, but it feels meaningful. Like another barrier has fallen between them.

The silence is more comfortable this time. They sit, breathing the same air and existing in the same space. It feels like they’re a single unit, suddenly. A real team. Like Tweek matters and that his presence is not only valid, but _needed_ by this man who is better than him in every way.

“Tweek,” Craig starts. He trails off a moment later, clearly trying to put what he needs to say into words he can’t find. Tweek encourages him with a small smile and a comforting stroke over the back of Craig’s hand with his thumb. The action makes Craig startle slightly. He glances down at their joined hands and for a moment, Tweek thinks that he may pull away. But then, slowly he relaxes again. Relaxes more than Tweek’s seen him all evening.

“Tweek,” he tries again. He speaks like the words taste new on his tongue. “Would you mind if I talked about them a little bit?”

Tweek doesn’t need to ask to whom Craig is referring to. He simply nods instead, the same, soft smile stretched on his lips. “Of course you can. I’d like to hear about them.” And he means it too. He does want to hear about them. Wants to hear about how Craig was raised. What home life looked for him. What job his mother did. What did his sister want to be if she’d ever got to grow up. Whether his father was a kind man.

Craig is hesitant at first. None of his usual surety is present. He’s stripping back years of restraint bit by bit, remembering those lost to him in the process. Probably remembering himself somewhere along the line too. Or at least the boy he used to be.

As Craig talks the words seem to come more easily. Eventually Tweek intuitively knows that it’s okay to ask questions and it blossoms into a full and open conversation.

In the end they talk well into the night and Tweek doesn’t once let go of Craig’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to pick up now!
> 
> A lot of conversation this chapter, so it might feel a bit slow, but I definitely know where I’m going with this!


	15. Chapter 14

A week passes with no further sign of Eric Cartman. Tweek knows better than to be lax though, remaining vigilant every time someone walks through the door. That practiced, pleasant service smile is never far from his face, but he prickles up every time he hears the bell on the door ding.

“Is everything alright?” Bebe asks in the lull after the breakfast rush.

Her voice startles Tweek out of his wandering thoughts. “Ah, yeah,” he smiles. “I guess I’m still on edge over that guy showing up.”

Bebe nods, pursing her lips in thought before turning to look away, cleaning out the filters instead.

When Tweek had told her about the Eric Cartman incident, she had simply nodded and agreed. Her reaction had surprised Tweek. He’d expected her to chew him out for acting above his pay grade, or wholeheartedly support him. But what he’d received instead was disinterest.

On another week that would have cut him to the bone, but this week he’s had a special job to do and keeping Craig safe ranks more highly than Bebe’s opinion of him. So he’d kept his distance. Been friendly to a professional extent until he’d realised a couple of days later that _he_ wasn’t the issue here. That something was up with Bebe.

He’d switched tack then, leaving her little cups of her favourite coffee ready for her lunch break, and offering to be on the desk more so she could catch a break and some distance from the customers by making the drinks. It’s worked doubly well because it has allowed him to keep a close eye on those coming in and out of the store, and gradually -as the week passes by- Bebe’s mood has seemed to be lifting.

“I didn’t really ask about that,” Bebe admits, leaning against the counter next to Tweek. It’s the first time all week she’s seemed more like her usual self, if a little somber still. “I’m sorry,” she adds.

“Don’t be,” Tweek says with an easy smile. “Thank you for not firing my ass over banning him from the store.”

“Tweek, you’re entitled to ban anyone who harasses you in your workplace. I don’t want any member of staff here to face that,” she says firmly, a frown marring her brow.

Tweek considers her for a long moment. He takes in her beautiful heart-shaped face, luscious lips and her fiery eyes. He realises then just how much she’s speaking from the heart.

“I bet you get harassed a bunch, huh?” He says with genuine sadness in his voice. He tries not to, but he can’t help the brief wave of shame he feels for his sex.

Bebe smiles. It’s somewhere between amusement and resignation. “You guess correctly, oh sage one. But I’ve had too many managers tell me to shut my mouth and stay pretty. Now that I’ve worked my way up to manager myself I can finally say fuck that shit.”

“I know what you mean,” Tweek sighs before adding quickly: “Obviously not like you do! But I get what it’s like to be told to shut up and not cause an issue.”

“Tweek,” Bebe says in a soft voice, so achingly understanding. “It’s still harassment.”

“I guess,” Tweek smiles. “It was enabled by my parents too. They didn’t tend to care if customers called me a _‘fucking spaz_ ’. In fact they’d say they agreed with them and to stop complaining.”

“Tweek, that’s horrible!” Bebe gasps, covering her mouth.

“Yeah,” Tweek agrees, still smiling. “It was. It’s taken me a long time to realise that and now I can say _fuck that shit_ too.”

Bebe laughs at that and Tweek realises it’s the first time he’s heard her laugh all week. “Fuck that shit!”

One of the older patrons shoots them a disapproving glare at the language, causing Bebe to duck her head and erupt into giggles.

Unable to help himself, Tweek joins in. At the woman’s unimpressed look, they both laugh harder, dissolving into near hysterics together. Some of the customers send them sharp looks, but most ignore the laughter in favour of listening to whatever podcast, or teleconference they’re currently tuned into.

It takes nearly a full minute and a half for them to settle back down, although their eyes remain wet with tears and their bodies wrack with residual chuckles.

“Thanks, Tweek,” Bebe smiles. “I needed that.”

“Glad I could help,” Tweek says. He wants to push further. Understand why she needed it so badly, but chooses not to ask, unwilling to risk the wall going back up.

Bebe titters again, calming herself with a hand pressed to her lips. Not for the first time, Tweek marvels at the art of make-up when Bebe’s hands fall away and her lips remain a perfect bow shaped out of red.

“So anyway, as I was saying, what did the guy do? Do we need to kick his ass?” Bebe asks, smacking her fist into her palm. If it’s meant to look intimidating, she fails. Instead it just makes Tweek’s heart flip-flop as his silly crush rears it’s ugly head once more.

It takes him a moment to collect himself, smothering the goofy smile that threatens to pull at his lips. “He came in here and basically fuckin’ threatened me with blackmail to spill the beans on Craig.” Tweek says. After a moment’s pause he adds: “Asshole.”

Bebe’s brows shoot up into her hairline. “He _what? Why?”_

“Some bullshit about a confession Craig got. Like he goes around blabbing about them to me.” Tweek shrugs. “I don’t know, but he offered me money or drugs to tell him what I know.”

Bebe’s lip pulls up in anger. “Was he serious?”

“I think so,” Tweek nods, scowling fiercely. “Craig’s got like his holy vow and I wouldn’t ask anyway. But even if I did, if that Cartman guy thinks that _anything_ could push me into betraying Craig’s trust, he’s wrong. I don’t care what he has on me.”

Bebe regards him in silence for a moment. In the wake of his impassioned outburst, Tweek suddenly feels very self-conscious under her scrutiny. Before he can start squirming, she smiles suddenly. He smiles back in befuddlement.

“You know, you’ve really changed since you started here,” Bebe says gently.

“Is that a good thing?” Tweek jokes back, resisting the urge to run a fidgety hand through his hair.

Bebe laughs softly, but looks up when the bell chimes and a customer wanders in.

They snap into action, plastering faker, more dutiful smiles on their faces as they hurry about to make up a soy milk latte and a cinnamon swirl. It  serves as a good distraction though. Busy hands too preoccupied to be twitchy, too practiced to pull and tug at clothing.

Tweek falls so comfortably into the rhythm of service that Bebe almost makes him jump out of his skin when she suddenly says, “Yes.”

“Huh?” Tweek says dumbly, a little higher in pitch than he’d like.

“Yes, it’s a good thing,” Bebe says, leaning next to him. You’re more confident than you used to be. It suits you.”

Tweek almost says ‘huh’ again, but saves face by reigning himself in at the last second. “Bu- wah?”

It’s not much better, but it at least makes Bebe laugh tunefully.

“I’m saying that confidence is sexy,” she winks.

At the word ‘ _sexy_ ’ Tweek almost chokes on a gasp. It’s far too late to try to play it cool. He can already feel the red clawing up from his neck, bleeding into his cheeks and across his nose, all the way up to his forehead. “I uh, uh. Thanks?” He blathers, kicking himself for sounding like an enormous dork.

Bebe laughs again. It’s a free sound, not forced or held back at all. “And being so flustered makes you cute.”

Tweek ducks his head. He knows he should be mortified, but at being called ‘cute’ a traitorous smile pulls at his lips. With most girls it’d be embarrassing to be called cute. With Bebe it feels like a real compliment.

“Tweek, you’re welcome to file a complaint against me for sexual harassment in the workplace, but do you by any chance like me?” Bebe asks, a beautiful smile lighting up her features.

Tweek’s mouth goes dry. He wants to reply -maybe brush it off, play it cool- but no words come and he bows his head lower instead. When Bebe doesn’t speak either, he bobs his head once, tasting humiliation on his tongue.

“If that’s the case, why haven’t you asked me out yet?” Bebe asks.

At the question and her gently teasing tone both, Tweek feels his head shoot up. He regards Bebe, eyes wide in shock as a hopeful, little feeling blossoms in his belly. “But- well you have a boyfriend,” Tweek says. It’s one of many, many reasons that he could have chosen: you’re my boss, you’re way out of my league, I’m just a hopeless ex-possessed, ex-junkie who lives on a couch also featuring highly on his list.

But Bebe just keeps smiling that gorgeous, lovely smile at him. “I did until last week.”

“Oh,” Tweek says dumbly, suddenly understanding Bebe’s mood over the last few days.

“So I’m available?” Bebe says, still smiling.

“Oh,” Tweek says again.

Bebe rolls her eyes, but she still sends him a fond, gentle look. “So I might be open for a nice, sweet, cute guy who’s confident enough to show an asshole customer the door to take me out for dinner?”

Tweek’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest. A tremble runs through him as conflicting emotions of pleasure and disbelief clash and battle. “Me?” He says in an undignified squawk.

“Yes, _you,”_ Bebe laughs, although she stands to full height. “Don’t feel pressured to, of course. I won’t take any offence if you’d rather not. Think on it.”

She graces him with one more smile, turning to walk toward the staff room.

Tweek freezes for a moment before his brain kicks into overdrive. “Wait!” He calls out, uncaring that he’s receiving yet more disapproving looks from the patrons.

Bebe pauses, spinning on the ball of her foot and arching an eyebrow. Tweek watches, enraptured by the way her voluptuous head of ringlets fall around her face.

“Can I?” He asks, eager as a teenage boy. He pauses. Takes a breath. “May I take you out to dinner, Bebe?” He asks again, tongue feeling heavy and dry like it doesn’t belong in his mouth.

Bebe grins in response. “Tomorrow night? I’ll text you my address. Pick me up at seven?”

“Sure!” Tweek replies with a wide smile. “I’ll pick you up at seven!”

“And remember to wear _confident,”_ Bebe laughs, turning back around. “It suits you a _lot.”_

He manages to hold it together until Bebe sets foot into the staff room. But the moment the door swings shut with a soft thump, Tweek’s mouth splits into an enormous grin. He spasms in a twitch, fist jabbing into the air as he shouts out a “ _Yes!”_

When Bebe rejoins him after her break, she sends him a knowing look, but honestly he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. Because for the first time he finally, _finally_ feels like things are looking up.

 

**

By the time he returns home, Tweek feels like he’s walking on air. The rest of the day had been just wonderful, with Bebe shooting him little smiles that feel different to her previous ones. He’s already nervous about taking her out, sure. He might screw up, she might reject him, the world might end. But knowing that a girl like Bebe Stevens has been looking at him - _really_ looking at him- for an entire day is enough to make feel like a million dollars. If only for a day.

He swings the door to the rectory open, a wide smile on his face as he steps over the door stop.

“Craig! You’ll never-“ his cheerful shout is cut short when he notices a strange figure in the room.

The man -hawkish in appearance and dressed in sweeping, black robes- looks up sharply at Tweek. He takes Tweek in for a moment, frosty, if not plain unfriendly. Then his eyes slide over to Craig, narrowed and razor sharp.

“And I trust this isn’t something that could cause an issue?” He says in a voice as jagged as broken glass.

Craig sighs almost imperceptibly, shooting Tweek an apologetic look. His face is tired. Tweek instantly feels like an ass.

“No. Father Maxi is aware of the circumstances. Tweek is someone who I’m helping.”

“Hmm,” the man says, disbelieving.

“I don’t have to explain this to you. I swear in God’s name. I’m not out of control. Besides, he’s straight,” Craig says. His tiredness carries over into his voice, although Tweek can detect an edge of anger there.

“See to it that it remains that way, Father Tucker,” the man says in a snippy tone. If Tweek didn’t like him before, he likes him even less as he rises to his feet and sweeps past Tweek and out the front door without another word.

Tweek stands stock still in the aftermath, afraid to move. Craig too seems a little lost for a moment before he slowly seems to shake himself free of whatever hold the man still has on him, raising his hand in a one-finger salute after him.

“Asshole,” He drones.

His voice unshackles Tweek from his living statue routine. He breathes out in a noisy exhale that whistles between his teeth.

“What the fuck was _that_?” Tweek yelps.

“Urgh,” Craig grunts, face creasing like he’s tasted something nasty. “Father Mandell, the Bishop’s attack dog.”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe he was a priest! He was fucking _scary_!” Tweek says, rubbing at his arms where gooseflesh has erupted in the aftermath. “What was he doing here though?” He asks after a second thought.

Craig rubs his face, slumping into his chair like he’s melting. “I reported the Cartman problem to the church,” Craig says simply.

“Oh,” Tweek says, moving to take a seat on the sofa. He avoids the still-warm spot left by Father Mandell, although he’s surprised that it doesn’t feel freezing cold. “Do you think they can help?”

“Hah,” Craig says, smirking sardonically. “It’s less that I think they can help and more because I have a duty to report anything that could hurt the church.” He breaks off to shrug. “I suppose they will step in to help out though if shit hits the fan. They’d probably put me on desk duty to keep me out of the way.”

“What?” Tweek says, surprised. “But none of this is your fault.”

“Well it _is_ my fault, Tweek. Homosexual acts are a sin,” Craig sighs. Tweek thinks it’s a terrible shame that he can say it without flinching. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m just a foot soldier at the end of the day.”

“A foot soldier? Craig you’re more than that!” Tweek says, aghast. “You’re the most amazing priest ever. Everyone loves you. You saved my soul, like, _literally.”_

Craig stares at him for a long moment. The harshness has been chased from his face by something softer. It always makes him look younger; the worry lines less deep, his lips not so thin. It makes Tweek feel an enormous ripple of fondness, a wash of warmth flooding him from head to toe.

“Thanks, Tweek,” Craig says finally. He wears a small smile despite his slightly sarcastic tone. “I wouldn’t say that _everyone_ loves me, but it’s not too bad to hear, I guess.” He shifts in his seat, sitting up properly to reach out for his cup. He swipes it up, pondering the contents before thinking better of it and putting it back down. “It’s not like I’m totally worthless to them or anything, but the church is an institution and we are simply her worker bees. The integrity of the church must always come first. Yes, they will protect me if I need it, but the church’s interests are more important than my own.”

“That just seems…” Tweek trails off. He wants to be angry, but the only word he can find is ‘sad’.

“It’s just the way things are. I do it too. I’m the one who called the archdiocese office to report my concerns,” Craig shrugs. “Although I wasn’t expecting Father Mandell to turn up and grill me over any recent deviancy.”

“Is this how so much child molestation gets covered up?” Tweek asks, suddenly angry.

“Unfortunately, yeah. The church always comes first,” Craig says.

Tweek sucks his teeth in annoyance. To him it seems like so many lives have been needlessly made worse all for the sake of an outdated institution. He almost says it aloud to. Throw it in Craig’s face. Ask him why he’s dedicated his life to an institution that hides away the undesirable whilst lecturing people over simple human nature.

But then Tweek looks at Craig again. Sees that quiet, little flame of righteousness hidden deep beneath the tired eyes and heavy posture. Knows that asking such things to Craig isn’t fair because Tweek doesn’t know what faith that strong feels like. Or how hard it is to be so driven by a cause that you can even reject who you are for it.

So Tweek tucks his claws away and retracts his fangs. Because it isn’t what Craig needs and it’s time Tweek gave back a little more.

“How are you feeling?” Tweek asks instead.

“Hmm?” Craig stirs from his far-off thoughts. “Alright, I guess.”

Tweek regards him for a long moment. He pulls in a breath and decides to persevere. “Are you really just _alright_?”

Craig’s head darts up in surprise. He meets Tweek’s eyes and despite wanting to twitch, Tweek holds it.

Craig breaks into a small, resigned smile, pulling his eyes away. “Alright, fine. You’re a pain in the ass. You’re gonna pull more confessions out of me than a priest would.” He grimaces briefly at that. “Although that’s not a great thing. I really should go to confession more. God only knows I need it,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well, you can use me as a confession-thingie. Or just a friend, or whatever you need.”

“Alright,” Craig agrees. He reaches out for his cup again, nudging it with his fingers. As a master fidget, Tweek recognises the action instantly. “I guess the last couple of weeks have sucked. A lot.”

Tweek nods, saying nothing. At the lack of response, Craig looks up, licking his lips when he seems to recognise that Tweek is silently prompting him to keep talking.

“Uh, wow, this is annoying from the other end,” Craig says, although there’s no heat to it. “Okay so I guess this Cartman thing has fucked me up a bit more than I thought it would. I mean just leave me alone, you know? It’s hard enough being gay as it is, but I live with it. I don’t want to have to be worrying that my congregation will turn on me because I’m a fag.”

Tweek flinches at the word. It sounds so harsh coming out of Craig’s mouth, but he realises that it would sound worse coming out of someone else’s. Someone using it against Craig.

“And this shit about my family. It’s been okay talking to you about it. I actually kinda enjoyed being able to talk about them but it’s the most painful part of my life and this rancid fucking asshole wants to use it against me. It makes me want to ask God to send him to Hell, but that’s not very priestly of me.

“And I guess that’s the issue for me. I know I’m not a good priest, but it’s one of the few things I’ve actually tried hard on. I take it seriously. I love what I do when I’m allowed to do it. But right now all I want to do is get fucked up.”

Done, Craig releases a sigh. He looks like he’s visibly deflating as he does so and Tweek wonders just how long he’s needed to unload all of this shit off his chest.

“Have you come close to drinking?” Tweek asks gently.

Craig regards him out of the corner of his eye and clicks his tongue. “Very. Twice this week. I stopped by the bar down the road but didn’t go in.”

Tweek nods. “That’s very strong of you, Craig. You should feel proud of yourself.”

“Oh yeah, I’m super proud,” Craig says flatly, his slight lisp growing more prominent under his sarcasm. “We have to have non-alcoholic wine in church because I want to get wasted on the blood of Christ.”

Tweek brushes the biting remark aside, knowing that it’s not aimed at him. He’s spent too many years dissecting himself to be sure of that.

“You _should_ be super proud,” Tweek says, shuffling closer. He leans forward, reaching out to cup Craig’s hands where they’re molded around the mug. “Sometimes I walk past shitty-looking alleyways and wonder if there’s a meth dealer hiding away down there,” he admits.

“Huh?” Craig asks, his self-hatred melting away into surprise.

“Yeah. I never even willingly took it, but on some days, when I’m having a bad day I want to get off my face. I want to feel like I’m floating and not giving a fuck because life is really shitty and just _hard_ sometimes. I miss it, you know? Maybe not every single day, but I do miss it despite everything.”

“Shit,” Craig says softly. “I had no idea.”

“Why would you?” Tweek smiles. “Like I said, it was never a choice, but that doesn’t stop my brain from being an asshole.”

Craig laughs. It’s a gravelly sound, teased with too much emotion. “Amen to that,” he jokes.

Tweek laughs too, a little titter, but still a laugh. “You know, getting possessed actually kind of made it better. I think it’s because it kinda helped me with my anxiety. I mean I’m not all fixed up or anything, but once you’ve had a demon trying to drag your soul to hell, a crappy customer doesn’t feel like quite such a big deal.”

Craig smiles at that. A proper smile. “When you put it that way, personal demons feel a little less insurmountable than biblical ones.” He pauses, shaking his head and falling into an easy smirk that suits him so much more than his frowns and apathy. “I hope that in whatever shit-stained corner of Hell that monster is hiding in, It knows that only made you stronger.”

“I don’t know about that,” Tweek says, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to bring the mood down, but he wants to be honest.  “I still feel like I’m never going to be totally clean again. And It still keeps me awake at night. It’s too complicated to say that it made my life better. I used to be afraid all the time, but now I’m afraid in a different way. It’s made coping day-to-day easier, but the nights are harder because I can’t find peace in the quiet any more. It’s made me finally feel okay with myself, but it’s cost me my old life. And even though I know I’m better off without those people and that way of living, I still miss it.”

“Tweek…” Craig says softly, the smirk having long since slipped from his face. “I’m sorry. That was pretty thoughtless of me.”

“Nah, it wasn't. And it’s not like I really talk about It. Sometimes I’m scared that talking about It will bring It back.” Craig opens his mouth, possibly to berate him over keeping that to himself, possibly to offer words of comfort. Tweek cuts him off by forging forward, tightening his grip on where his hands are cupping Craig’s. “But when I’m feeling scared, or shitty about the demon I remember that It brought you into my life. And honestly, I think you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Craig.” Tweek finishes with a smile, glad that he can at least offer that as an assurance.

To Tweek’s surprise, instead of calling him out or teasing him, Craig’s cheeks tinge red. He blinks once, twice, mouth twitching. His adam's apple bobs in a gulp. And then suddenly his entire face is a funny colour.

Tweek goes to laugh at him, maybe tease him for being a sap when Craig suddenly jerks his hands back, away from Tweek’s. Tweek releases a startled yip in response as the lukewarm remainder of Craig’s coffee sloshes over his hands. Craig follows a moment later with a hissed curse as he receives the greater proportion of it in his lap.

The sudden commotion breaks the odd but amusing aftermath of Tweek’s confession. Craig jumps to his feet, throwing his hands out in despair.

“Ah, shit,” he says gruffly. He turns his face away so Tweek can no longer see it. “I gotta go change.”

Despite being a little confused by Craig’s overreaction, Tweek still utters a small laugh. “You want a fresh one?” He says, getting to his feet, scanning the sitting chair and rug for any sign of spillage. Luckily, he finds none.

“Sure,” Craig mutters, distractly running his hands over his trousers. “Actually, you mind making me a tea? I’ve had too much coffee today.”

“Sure,” Tweek smiles. He leaves Craig in the living room, turning and walking towards the kitchen. He hasn’t even reached the door when he hears the sweep of Craig rushing past him, scaling the stairs in a noisy jog.

Tweek lets muscle memory kick in as he prepares their drinks, taking a moment reflect on the day’s events. Scoring a date with Bebe had been a pretty high point, but his conversation with Craig feels really important too. It feels like it was healthy to have it and Tweek certainly feels better for it. Again though, as he picks it apart he can’t help but feel like there is something odd about the way that Craig reacted. Not necessarily bad, but odd. A little awkward, maybe.

He shrugs, moving over to the stove to check on the water and deeming it ready. He pours out the drinks and stirs, grasping one handle in each hand and heading back into the living room.

Craig follows him in several minutes later, dressed more casually in jeans and an old t-shirt. He looks entirely like his usual self as he takes his seat and reaches for his drink.

“I realised when I was getting changed that you had something to tell me,” Craig says, blowing onto his drink in a small puff.

“Huh?” Tweek says, confused.

“When you came in you sounded excited about something,” Craig expands.

Tweek frowns, searching his memory for what Craig is referring to. Slowly, belatedly Tweek remembers his elation over his date with Bebe. How he’d wanted to share his excitement with Craig and watch Craig be happy for him.

But suddenly… suddenly he isn’t so sure for some reason. Suddenly he feels like an ass. Like going on about his date is just rubbing salt in the wound for Craig. Where before he’d just wanted to share his happiness with his best friend, he now realises that maybe it’s cruel of him. Maybe Craig shouldn’t be subjected to Tweek’s easy, heterosexual romance when he’s trapped in a life of living without another’s touch. Living knowing that he’s seen as a sinner by the church he loves so much.

“I…” Tweek starts, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t want to lie, and he’s sure that Craig will be happy for him. But somehow it just feels all wrong to gloat about it in front of him.

“Tweek?” Craig asks, perplexed.

“I uh,” he ducks his head as the weird feeling doesn’t abate. “I’m going on a date with Bebe tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Craig says. He blinks once in surprise, eyelids slowly dipping. “Oh. I see.” The tone of voice doesn’t fit him. He doesn’t sound happy at all. He sounds wrong somehow.

Tweek’s head shoots back up in surprise, confusion blooming across his brow a second later. The tone leaving Craig’s mouth is false. Empty. So far away from the gentle pride that Tweek expected to hear.

Craig almost visibly squirms in his seat and looks away. “Great. That’s- yeah that’s great. You like her don’t you? So it’s great. I’m pleased for you.”

He’s lying. Tweek knows it intuitively. And despite how his own gut warned him against telling Craig, Tweek feels a hot flash of hurt from it. He knows he has no right, but it still hurts. He thought Craig would be happy for him. Why isn’t he happy for him?

“Yeah, uh. She asked me,” Tweek carries on, somehow feeling like he needs to justify himself. He barely manages to reign his wounded pride in and keep his voice level. He has a feeling that some of it seeps out, given the tightness in his voice.

Craig nods, looking and sounding as if he’s not in the room any more. Like he’s far away. “Cool. She seems like a nice woman. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

 _‘Why aren’t you happy for me?’_ Tweek’s mind demands, his thoughts flitting madly within the confines of his skull. It makes him feel anxious. That same skin-crawling anxiety that he hasn’t felt for a long time. Anger, hot and irrational follows it. It tastes like ash on his tongue. ‘ _Why are you lying to me?_ ’ burns even hotter.

‘ _I trust you,_ ’ a quieter voice begs.

“Sorry, Tweek,” Craig says suddenly, piercing the awkwardly charged atmosphere as abruptly as a lightning bolt, slicing through the seething air. “I got a shitty headache. I think I might go and lie down. I’m glad for you though.”

“Sure,” Tweek says in that same, tight voice.

Craig gets to his feet and sweeps past him without another word. Tweek refuses to watch him leave, eyes fixed on the blank television set ahead of him. Anger and guilt battle a bloody duel within him. He knows that he’s fucked up, should’ve listened to his gut, but Craig’s reaction hurts. After everything, _everything,_ he thought Craig might be happy for him. To see him so obviously not be feels like a slap in the face.

He’s filled with a nasty, jittery energy when he gets to his feet. The room feels silently judgemental, nagging at him like a sullen afterthought.

With no idea _how_ to feel, Tweek heads into the kitchen to busy himself with making coffee. It’s a piss-poor substitute for what he really wants in that moment, but it’ll have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some cracking critique on the last chapter so I've edited it slightly to make Tweek seem a little less excited after learning about Craig's background. I definitely think it reads better now.
> 
> Critique is really helpful. If you have any and I agree with it, I will develop the story accordingly. 
> 
> In other news this monstrosity has reached the 80k words mark (Jesus Christ, thanks for sticking with it) but we're on the precipice now! The winds of change, they are a-blowing.


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter to make up for the delay. Plus a masturbation scene if you're squicked by it.

Tweek doesn’t see Craig the next day, but when his phone buzzes at ten past one in the afternoon, he knows there’s one of only two people it can be.

It raises his hopes, bringing him to a halt in the frozen aisle as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve it.

[ _ **Hey. I’m sorry for being a dick.** ]_

Despite the hurt and the confusion and the everything else, Tweek immediately feels warm. A smile erupts over his face and his fingers are quickly dancing over the keyboard in response, clearly forgetting that he’s supposed to be mad with Craig.

[ _ **Thats ok. :^)** ]_

Something like relief washes over him. He takes a moment to move to one side, hovering close to the door to the frozen pizzas.

[ _ **No it’s not. I wasn’t fair to you. I really am happy for you. You deserve it.** ]_

Tweek reads the words over a couple of times. It’s vindicating to see Craig recognise that he’s been an ass, but Tweek does feel just a little bit frustrated with himself. He’s quick to anger, but quicker to forgive, never one for confrontation. Craig admitting fault feels good, but it doesn’t explain why Craig acted so weird.

Why wasn’t he happy in the first place? Was it really because he feels lonely?

Tweek does the rest of his shopping with his thoughts elsewhere. He doesn’t realise _how_ far they are away until the woman at the store’s checkout holds up a box of condoms.

“It’s buy one get one half price,” she drones with a perfect lack of enthusiasm.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Tweek stares at the box in her hand, his cheeks flaring a brilliant red.

“They’re not mine!” He bleats, utterly ashamed.

“Uhuh,” the woman responds, clearly disbelieving. “Do you want them or not then?”

Tweek’s eyes widen at the question. He’s been so distracted thinking about Craig and his weird reaction that his hands must have been working with a mind of their own.

He’s filled with embarrassment over the realisation that on some level he’s been hoping to get lucky on his date. It makes him feel like a total dick, being so presumptuous over a woman like Bebe. She’s a strong, beautiful woman who deserves the world so there’s no way she’d put out on the first date.

At the same time, she’s liberal and free and might want to do what she damn well pleases with her body. But then she might also be outraged if she finds out that Tweek is thinking about the possibility of fucking when he should be grateful to just have a date with her. But _then_ she might respect him more if things happen and he pulls out a condom like the responsible adult he is. _But then_ he really hasn’t been getting any vibes from her that she is looking to screw him.

“ _Sir_! Are you going to get them or not?” The woman at the checkout snaps, clearly growing annoyed with his empty-headed stare.

“Uh!” Tweek says shrilly. “Yeah. I will.”

 _‘Better safe than sorry’_ , he thinks, feeling like a grade A pervert for the effort. He scoops the condoms up, shoving them deep into the recesses of the paper bag. He layers some vegetables on top to better hide them, but he continues to hold the very real concern that someone on his journey home may have x-ray vision.

He pays, trying not to wince at the extra cost the condoms add on, and scurries out. He scuffs his shoes along the pavement, feeling less like a thirty year-old and more like a _thirteen_ year old. He’s awkward and spotty again, a collection of coat hanger bones under thinly-stretched, pallid skin. He’s freaking out over whether he’s going to be good enough for the pretty girl and worried that he’s upset his best friend.

He almost frog-marches home in his awkwardness, letting himself in and hurriedly locking the door behind him.

“Craig?” He calls out, despite knowing that Craig is at work. He isn’t sure whether he feels relief or disappointment when he receives no response. The fact that he feels disappointed at all comes as a surprise to him, given their odd argument. He supposes that it must be habit.

Quickly he makes his way over to his tatty, old backpack. Seized by the fear that Craig might walk in and catch him with the condom box, Tweek tears the plastic off it and pulls two out, shoving them into his wallet. Then he snaps the box shut and shoves it deep into the recesses of his bag, pulling some socks over them for good measure.

He knows it’s ridiculous, sneaking around like a naughty school kid, but he just feels so horribly guilty. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows it’s just natural to be thinking about sex. Knows it’s sensible to want to be safe. But still the very thought of Craig knowing that he’s thinking about having sex makes him cringe. It was awkward enough admitting that he was going on a _date_. He should have just gone with his gut in the first place and said nothing.

But then, doing that would be lying, and although things are weird between them, somehow Tweek knows that _not_ telling Craig would hurt his feelings worse.

Shoving the thought aside, Tweek pulls the new shirt he’s bought specially for his date. It’s only a cheap, Target thing, but it’s a nice colour -an ultramarine blue- and should look alright with his nicest pair of black jeans.

He drapes it over his arm, pulling his jeans and a fresh pair of underwear out of his allocated drawer and heads for the bathroom. He doesn’t bother locking the door behind him, finally able to savour being home alone. Whenever Craig is around he feels as if he has to rush- even though he’s sure Craig wouldn’t mind-  parroting Craig’s own spartan approach to showering. He hangs his clothes neatly over the towel rail, relishing in the idea of taking a long, indulgent shower.

Stripping down to nudity, Tweek pauses to study himself in the mirror. He curls an arm, flexing, pleased when he sees that working so many shifts at Harbucks is starting to tone him back up again. He’s never been bulky -which he’d prefer- but he’s always been strong. After the whole event with the possession though, it’s taken Tweek some time to recover his muscle.

He pauses, watching his reflection like it’s a stranger, shivering at the memory, still so vivid in his mind. He remembers so clearly, as if it’s been minutes and not months. He’d looked frightening, alien and emaciated. A horror show of parchment skin stretched over angular bones, dirty at the edges, even after they’d wiped the filth and shit off him.

It feels like minutes. And yet the man looking back at him argues otherwise. His hair is in need of a wash, but still looks soft. His face has filled back out again -maybe a little _too_ much actually. His eyes are bright, no longer sunken and bruised. His lips are no longer cracked and are pulling into a tiny smile. It’s a little bit forced, but it looks natural, no longer a nasty slash across his face.

He’s never really liked how he looks. When he was younger he was too pudgy and the kids teased him for the way his gut hung over his pants. But people had at least thought he was cute. He’d been overweight, sure, but his soft features and blond hair had made people coo over him, and some girls would spend their lunch break holding his hand.

As he’d grown older and his parents had grown more out of control with their meth problem and Tweek had likewise subconsciously sought higher and higher doses of his parents’ coffee, his saving grace of cuteness had fallen away. Right with his desire to sleep or eat properly. The weight had fallen off him as he broke through puberty. Initially he’d marvelled at it, pleased to see the softness of his belly drop away. But then it had fallen away too much. His face had grown gaunt and his hair limp. His joints grew angular and nobbled. His arms -once toned- started to bulge unpleasantly. He wasn’t cute any more then. He’d been the weird-looking guy that some of the boys used to liken to a rat. Some of them used to laugh and call him ‘Tweeker’, not knowing how right they’d been. Girls had turned their noses up at him, saying that they thought he looked like a creep.

It had hurt. All of it. Finding out what his parents had been doing and going through an intensive detox programme had been worse, of course, throwing a heavy blanket of trauma over the childhood teasing. But years on, standing here healthier in mind and body both, Tweek still hears their words. To him, he still looks awkward: too nobbly at his joints, not tall enough, premature worry lines, lips that still suffer from nervous biting.

Sighing, he turns away from the mirror, trusting that Bebe sees something better than he does. Hoping that she can feel the same excitement for him as he does for her.

He reaches into the shower, flicking it on and testing the water. It’s a warm day, but Tweek still chooses a hot spray, stepping into it and sighing again when it hits him.

For a long moment he lets the water beat down on him, tapping restlessly against his skull as his hair falls in painted curls around his face. When he finally breaks free from the soupy depths of his mind, his hair is saturated, his fringe falling in chunks and trying to attack his eyes. He makes quick work of sweeping it off his face and lathering it with shampoo, scrubbing his scalp clean and watching as the suds swirl down the drain.

Once the water runs clear, Tweek spreads his legs apart and takes his cock in hand, pulling on himself and stirring it into wakefulness. It doesn’t take long to coax himself into being half-hard, having gone a couple of days without jerking off.

He’s always done this before dates. In part to take the edge off and to help himself relax a bit beforehand. It also helps if things _do_ escalate because then he doesn’t cum like an inexperienced teenager, adding to his overall underwhelming dating prowess. It’s been so long since he had sex that he wouldn’t be surprised if he came from making out alone.

As he falls into rhythm and slips his fingers down to stroke his balls he feels his muscles turn to jelly. It’s helping him more than he’d initially figured it would. He’s been tense since his non-argument with Craig last night, but as the first warm thrills of pleasure start to run through him like a gentle electric current he feels it start to cut away at the strings of tension within him. The same tension that’s been eating away at him for weeks, a hard wire frame running through his limbs that his awkward public toilet sessions just haven’t been able to cut through.

As his breathing picks up, he reaches a steadying hand out for the wall, spreading his fingers across the tile. He lets his eyes slip shut, focusing on the build as his fist methodically works his dick, pulling his foreskin over his reddened tip and using his thumb to rub the underside.

With time on his side, and his mood lifting, Tweek gets more adventurous, twisting his hand and cupping his balls until he’s fully stiff and only a few strokes away. It’s then that he slows, delighting in the torturous build-up as he forces himself to take his time. It’s been a long time since he could enjoy a wank like this. Something about it reignites his sexuality. Touching and feeling like this is _good._ It’s more than just a tension-reliever or a job to do when his balls feel too heavy. It’s more. Something almost spiritual. Liquid fire and electricity and that tightrope walk of pleasurepain that makes his heart thud in his throat. It’s worldly and base, but it makes him feel like he’s touching something more. Connecting with something greater than himself.

And then the thread holding him together snaps and he’s cumming, strings of semen pulsing out of him with each throb of his dick, falling in globs onto the shower floor and mixing with the water to swirl down the drain, chasing after suds. A sigh leaves Tweek with a whoosh, his entire chest deflating like he’s been holding his breath. Calm washes over him, a warm sense of satisfaction free of the usual snap of guilt. He sighs again, a half-moan of pleasure, and washes his hand off.

After his initial indulgence, Tweek makes quick work of cleaning himself off, paying special care to his pits and his balls. He rinses off and switches off the shower, stepping out onto the mat and reaching for a towel.

After a scrub down reminiscent of the kind his mother used to give him when he was tiny he returns to the mirror. He pushes his dripping hair back from his face and leaves it for a moment, choosing instead to reach for his razor and shaving cream. He’s tried growing a beard once or twice, but it had just made him look like a serial killer and definitely isn’t something for him. Which is a shame, because beards look cool.

Craig would probably suit a beard. His hair is thick and soft and so dark. Then again though, Craig suits anything.

The thought makes Tweek smile mid-shave and he has to pause to prevent himself from nicking his cheek.

“Shit,” he hisses, inspecting his skin, despite not feeling any stings. Satisfied he hasn’t scarred himself like a dork, he finishes up, patting his face dry with a towel and rubbing in a bit of moisturiser for a treat.

He studies himself in the mirror, as pleased as he can be before reaching over to snatch up the hairdryer. Taming his hair is an art form, and not one that Tweek has ever fully mastered. His hair is a mess of flyaway curls at the best of time. Cutting it short makes it curlier like some fat cherub baby from renaissance paintings. Letting it grow a bit gives it the weight to calm his curls but runs the risk of giving him mad scientist hair if he doesn’t try to calm it down.

He takes his time today, brushing as he dries in a clumsy adaptation of how hairdressers dry his hair. It lightens as it dries, growing more lustrous with each shade it lifts. When he switches the drier off and pulls it away from himself, his hair remains in place in some semblance of behaving itself. Tweek peers closer to the mirror, twisting his head this way and that, grinning when his hair does as bid.

Unable to do any more, Tweek steps into his underwear, yanking them up and settling them snugly into place. He follows with his jeans and shirt, fingers flowing down his front to pull the buttons together. Once done, Tweek steps back and smooths his hands down his chest. He debates tucking it in for a good ten minutes before finally deciding that it’s fitted enough to leave it hanging out without looking scruffy.

He’s about as satisfied as he can be when he gives himself the final once-over, nodding and turning away from the mirror, tugging the light off as he leaves. He checks his phone, unsurprised to find himself quite ahead of schedule. It’ll take him just over an hour to get the bus over to Bebe’s meaning that he should leave in around half an hour.

He shuts the door behind him with a soft click and pads into the living room, nearly shrieking with surprise when he finds Craig lying on the sofa with his feet up on the arm.

“ _Jesus,_ Craig!” Tweek hisses, clutching a hand over his heart. “You made me jump.”

Craig grunts and swings his feet. “I finished early for the day. I did call out, but you clearly didn’t hear me,” he says in a drawling tone that Tweek recognises as amusement. “Too busy preening.”

Huffing, Tweek steps over, swatting playfully at Craig’s feet. “Asshole. I got a lot to work on,” Tweek says. It’s truthful, in his view, but he wraps it tightly in humour.

“Hardly,” Craig scoffs, swinging his feet again. His arms are folded behind his head and he’s staring at the ceiling.

Tweek smiles at his dismissal, shoving his feet off the arm and sitting his ass down on it instead.

“Oi!” Craig says, sitting up abruptly. “Don’t-”

Craig stops speaking abruptly. Startled, Tweek glances over at him, confused as to why he cut himself off.

Craig’s gaze is fully on him. It’s so intense that Tweek feels a shiver run through him, suddenly naked beneath that gaze. He almost misses the way Craig’s tongue sneaks out to run along his lower lip. His lips catch on it, biting softly. It reminds Tweek of a starving man given sight of his first meal in weeks.

In that moment, Craig is unguarded and Tweek sees the man hidden away beneath the priest. It’s raw, like the pink flesh beneath an old scar.

“You uh, you look good,” Craig says in a soft voice. His mouth looks like it’s moving too fast for his words, moving in unspoken vowels.

Tweek takes a moment look down at himself. He can feel himself blushing for some ridiculous reason. As if Craig would look at someone like _him_ like that. As if, standing next to Bebe, anyone would look at him the way Craig is now. “Oh, thanks, Craig. I tried!” He says, following it with a self-deprecating laugh.

Craig nods. His stare remains intense a moment longer but, when Tweek is about to feel overwhelmed, his eyes pull away, settling on the sofa beside him.

“She’s the lucky one. Not you,” Craig says simply.

Tweek feels his eyes widen. “Wha- how did you?”

“Lucky guess,” Craig looks back to him, offering him a small smile. “You don’t tend to see what others see in you.”

“Oh,” Tweek breathes. Despite years of conditioning telling him otherwise, Tweek feels his heart thud happily at the words. The pleasure is quickly followed by guilt though, thoughts from only moments before cropping back up. It makes him feel undeserving of the praise. “I’m sorry I didn’t cook you anything.”

Craig waves a hand. “Don’t be. I can get take-out.”

Tweek sighs at that, pushing a single blond lock that keeps ticking his jaw back from his face. Craig watches the motion like he’s watching a miracle. It makes Tweek shift, suddenly uncomfortable.

 _'Craig is a gay man and you’ve scrubbed up alright. For_ you _, anyway,”_ the voice in his head pipes up in a lazy drawl. ‘ _He probably wants to fuck you right now, just like how you thought about him fucking the mysterious Thomas.’_

Tweek almost falls off his perch in shock. Craig jolts in surprise at the sudden motion, snapping back into focus.

“You alright?” Craig says.

“Uh, yeah!” Tweek replies, voice a notch higher than usual. He feels flustered for no reason he can really justify. A stray thought is just that, surely: a stray thought. And yet it’s never once occurred to him that Craig might find him attractive and the thought -whether reality or fantasy- hits him hard. It’s a lot like the time a stray football from high school football practise hit him full in the chest. And he’d been on the bleachers.

He tries to shove the thought from his head. Write it off as homophobic and presumptuous. But when he looks back over at Craig he notices the streak of colour running across his nose and cheeks. It’s high on his cheekbones and makes his eyes look a little darker. They _are_ darker, in fact, pupils looking too-large against the blue of his iris.

It makes a weird feeling squirm in Tweek’s belly so he gets to his feet and brushes himself down just to give his hands something to do. His heart thuds beneath his ribs, squeezing in protest as if he’s just thrown himself into a high intensity work out. He can feel Craig’s eyes on him. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, reminding him faintly of the charged atmosphere during their late-night chat.

He turns suddenly, seized by a flash of courage that feels completely out of nowhere. When he does, his eyes find Craig’s instantly.

Craig immediately looks away.

“I could drop you off, if you want?” Craig offers, sounding further away than the metre that separates them.

“It’s okay,” Tweek says with a shake of his head. “Honestly. I got the route all planned out.” To the minute, even. And he knows full well that Craig taking him there would be so much easier and quicker. But it feels so wrong to ask that of him, even though Tweek appreciates Craig wants to make the effort. It just feels wrong somehow.

Craig nods. He shifts to prop his feet on the coffee table, long legs pushing it further away from himself. “See you later then,” he nods.

“Yeah. Later,” Tweek echoes. He steps towards the door, crouching down to pull his nicest shoes on. Before he leaves he can’t help throwing one last glance over his shoulder, but Craig is staring fixedly at the television set.

Unsure what else to say, Tweek bites his lip and slips out of the front door.

**

 

He arrives at Bebe’s place a little ahead of time. It isn’t until he’s knocking the front door that he realises he’s early because he forgot to pick up flowers like he’d planned.

He scowls at his own forgetfulness. He’s been planning this out in his head all day. But then, he’d almost missed his bus stop too, thoughts too far away. They feel tangled, which makes no sense because this is what he’s been dreaming about, ever since he started working at Harbucks5 all those months ago.

Shoving his confusion away, he scans the nameplate, finding _B. Stevens_ easily and jabbing his finger into the button.

It rings in an unpleasantly shrill pitch for several seconds before Bebe’s voice crackles over the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. Tweek,” Tweek clarifies. “Sorry, I’m a little early.”

“Hey!” Bebe replies, a cheerful note in her voice. “That’s fine, but I uh, didn’t really have time to tidy round so uh-”

Taking pity, Tweek smiles to himself. “It’s fine. I can wait outside. It’s not cold anyway.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Bebe gushes, sounding embarrassed. “I’m a crappy date. I’ll be down in two minutes.

“See you then,” Tweek says, already stepping away.

She takes closer to six minutes than two, but sure enough she emerges as promised, announcing her presence with a noisy click from the front door.

Tweek straightens from where he’s been leaning against the railing, smiling when he sees her.

His concerns that she’s not going to treat this as a real date are quashed. Her hair is swept up into a fancy style that clearly would have taken a while to perfect. Her makeup looks fantastic. She’s wearing what Tweek knows from too many lectures to be ‘smokey eyes’. On her lips sits her characteristic red lipstick lending to the vixen-like look that she wears so flawlessly.

Her choice of clothing would make any straight man’s mouth run dry. It’s understated but fitted: a black knee-length pencil skirt matched with a sleeveless red top. She finishes the look with low-heeled sandals. Tweek can’t figure out whether she chose them because she doesn’t like heels, or because he’s not particularly tall, but so long as she’s comfortable, he doesn’t care.

Bebe looks every bit as perfect as Tweek hoped she would. It brings a smile to his face, his fears that she’s treating this date as some sort of joke being trampled to dust. She’s dressed as if he’s a real suitor. Like she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt, and not just taking pity on the poor loser she works with.

But somehow some of the excitement he felt earlier has evaporated. The simple knowledge that this is a real date should make him want to bounce off the walls, but instead he just feels sort of honoured that she put so much effort in. He doesn’t want to reflect on why that may be, chalking it up to stress.

“You look great!” Bebe grins, pulling him into a hug. She pulls back to prod his cheek. “It’s so nice to see you out of an apron!”

“Yeah. You too,” Tweek smiles. He surprises himself as he does. He thought this would be harder. He thought he’d be more flustered.

Bebe doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to grin as she winds her arm around his. “Okay then, lead away.”

Tweek feels warmer from the contact. It feels nice. “Are you okay walking to a taxi rank from here?”

“Sure,” Bebe’s grin calms into a smile. “It’s a nice night. Let’s walk.”

They set off, falling into companionable silence as they walk. In the quiet Tweek finds himself reflecting on how Craig had looked at him before he left. How different it was to the way Bebe looks at him. His stomach squeezes in response.

“You alright?” Bebe asks, jolting his arm gently.

Tweek is dragged back into the present more by the motion than her words.

“Yeah,” Tweek says. “Just thinking about dinner.”

The lie satisfies Bebe. She nods and laughs in response. “Me too! I’m starving!”

Tweek smiles, waving as they near the taxi rank. A cab pulls over in response, the driver agreeing to take them up to Larimer Street before they hop in.

“Good call!” Bebe complements him as they near their drop-off point. She gifts him with a grin and pats his knee. “I love RiNo. Have you been much?”

“No,” Tweek confesses as he gazes out of the window, watching as their surroundings become more interesting and more exotic. “I grew up in a crap hole of a town named South Park, but all the kids used to go into Denver whenever they had the chance. They used to talk about RiNo like it was the coolest place on earth.”

“I grew up here and it was the place to be for a girl like me,” Bebe chuckles.

“Yeah, I bet,” Tweek agrees good-naturedly, and he can see it too. Can see a younger Bebe with her hair wild and free, and her eyes dark, clad in her signature red lipstick and torn jeans. “All the cool kids at school would talk about going out on Saturday nights, sneaking into places and doing crazy shit. I always, always wanted to go but I wasn’t the right fit, and my mom and dad used to make me feel like I was a baby.”

“Overprotective?” Bebe asks, voice softening.

“Something like that,” Tweek says. _Manipulative_ was another word for it. They’d infantilised him his entire life, and somewhere along the line he’d started to believe the shit they were feeding him.

“Well _I_ think you’re cool,” Bebe says without a hint of sarcasm or irony. “So you definitely belong up here now.”

Tweek laughs at that, bobbing his head. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I _did_ manage to find my way up here eventually, but it’s always been in the day time.” _And always alone,_ he doesn’t add.

“We’ll have to stick around until the sun goes down then,” Bebe smiles. There’s something excited in that smile. Tweek sees it, but for some reason he doesn’t feel it. It’s something that he should find odd or surprising. He’s in the coolest place from his childhood dreams on the arm of a beautiful and vivacious woman. And it’s real. It’s _real_ but somehow it doesn’t feel like he’d been expecting it to.

He doesn’t have time to dissect himself. The car rolls to a stop and Bebe is on her feet, leaning over and thrusting a handful of dollars to the driver.

“I was gonna get that!” Tweek says, embarrassed that his slipping thoughts have led to such a dating faux pas.

“I’m a modern woman,” Bebe says, rolling her eyes. “But if it bothers you, you can get dinner and I’ll get the first drinks.”

“Okay, fine,” Tweek replies, stepping out of the car. He suspects that she’s being mindful of his financial situation, which is a little humiliating, but he can’t pretend he’s not grateful.

Bebe takes his arm again as they wander down the street. Tweek’s eyes shift, lingering on murals and artistically hung lighting. He’d finally managed to make his own pilgrimage here in his early twenties. Back then it had been breathlessly exciting, an exquisite feeling of _making it_ filling him. He’d finally felt like he’d caught up with the cool kids at school. A sensation of anti-establishment had hung thick in the air and Tweek- so afraid and such a good boy- had felt like it had almost been speaking to him. A whole secret puck-rock world full of _fuck yous_ , and sensation and artistic freedom. It had been nothing like South Park. It had felt like the big, wide world beyond it.

Tweek had only been back a handful of times since, but he remembers that first time fondly. The place is alive beneath his feet, and all he can do is marvel at the way it has continued to grow and blossom. Becoming upmarket and trendy. But, he fancies that beneath it all he still feels that thrum of punk and the spirit of freedom.

As he reflects he’s struck by the sudden, rogue image of Craig enjoying the streets of RiNo. The Craig that comes to mind isn’t the Craig of now, but Craig from that hidden, old picture, fresh-faced and full of youthful folly. Tweek can picture him, hand in hand with Thomas, or some other boy he’s in love with. He wonders if that Craig had laughed over some ridiculous statement art, or dared his beau to get a tattoo. Did he sneak drinks and make out in alleyways, just like any other dumb kid? Had he been freer? Happier?

Tweek’s heart squeezes at the thought. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to be out here, getting his life back together like this. He’d call himself a fool for thinking such things. For assuming that Craig isn’t perfectly happy following his chosen path. For assuming that his closeness to God doesn’t erase the loneliness any other man might feel. For allowing his own lack of faith to undermine the strength Craig must draw from it.

But somehow, deep in his heart of hearts he can see it in the way Craig acts, can hear it in the words Craig doesn’t speak. That somehow it’s a facade. That somehow the righteous path he’s set himself on perhaps isn’t truly the right path for him, but he’s too afraid to consider what else might be.

“Tweek?” Bebe’s voice snaps Tweek from his dark thoughts. When his eyes find her face, he can see that she looks concerned. “Is everything alright?”

Tweek nods and forces a smile. “Sorry, Bebe. I was just thinking about the past,” he says, not entirely lying.

Bebe’s frown smooths out into an understanding look. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Tweek says firmly. “I want to focus on you. I mean, not in a creepy way, I just-”

Bebe laughs at his stumbling. The sound cheers Tweek up. Makes him feel more like his usual self.

“Italian?” Bebe says, swinging his arm lightly.

Tweek pauses, glancing up at the pink, neon lighting of _Romano’s_ : a cool-looking hole in the wall type place. His belly agrees, grumbling at the thought of hand-stretched pizza.

“Italian,” Tweek agrees, leading the way with Bebe still on his arm.

They’re greeted by a friendly-looking woman in blue jeans and a white t-shirt who ushers them to one of the five tables. The place is boutique and charming, exactly right for a date with a woman like Bebe.

They settle into their seats, ordering wine for Bebe and a Birra Moretti for Tweek, before falling into a comfortable silence. Tweek sets his chin on his palm, eyes wandering and taking in the setting. It feels normal to sit in a restaurant with a pretty girl. Nice. So far away from demons, and homelessness, and nightmares.

“So how _are_ you, Tweek?” Bebe asks, her voice softer than usual, only just carrying over the quiet strums of classic rock playing in the background.

Tweek looks over at her and gifts her with a genuine smile. “Things are getting there,” he says. And it’s the entire truth this time. “It’s still weird, struggling to make ends meet and relying on charity but I’m a lot luckier than most guys. Above all else, I guess it’s helped me to appreciate how easy I had it before. When I’m back on my own two feet I won’t take it for granted again. It’s all too easy to lose.”

Bebe nods. Her focus is entirely on Tweek in a way that reminds him so much of Craig.

Growing up, Tweek had felt so much like an afterthought. Like his presence had just been circumstantial. He’d been a useful employee to his parents. He’d been present as a boyfriend to his girlfriends. He’d been fun enough to play with for the local kids when he’d turned up in full costume without an invite. But so few people have ever looked at him and seen _Tweek._ Like he matters. Like he has value.

For a heart-stopping moment, he nearly wells up, overwhelmed by gratitude for there being such good people in the world.

He clears his throat, jerking his eyes down to the menu, pretending to scrutinise it, even though he already knows what he wants. “But I’ve also learnt who my friends are and that shit is important.”

From behind his menu, Bebe laughs softly. “Definitely.” Tweek can only imagine what looking like Bebe entails, but he’s cut off from any further probing when their drink order arrives.

The waitress sticks around long enough to take down their food before disappearing off into the kitchen. By the time she’s left, Tweek doesn’t want to push the conversation on. Briefly he wonders what take-out Craig has ordered. Thinks that maybe he should bring him here too as the tiniest gesture of thanks. He definitely likes pizza, judging by the frequency that they have it.

“Maybe I should take leftovers home,” he says aloud. At Bebe’s startled look, he realises that he hadn’t meant to announce it.

“For the Father?” Bebe asks.

Tweek feels himself flush in embarrassment. “Yeah,” he says. “He doesn’t really go out much. Ever, really.”

Bebe glances down at the menu. She looks a little sad as she traces her finger across the words. “Does he ever do anything for fun?”

Tweek shrugs. “We play Playstation and watch movies sometimes,” he says. “But he doesn’t exactly get holidays or go on lunch dates.”

“I can’t imagine having faith that strong,” Bebe says, still sounding sad. Or perhaps, more accurately, regretful. “It must be wonderful to believe so strongly in God that you don’t even have any doubts. Not even when you see people around you living their lives, doing what they want.”

Tweek says nothing to that. He wants to agree. Wants to put his selfish feelings aside. Knows that he has no right to think that he knows better than that, but he’s seen the look on Craig’s face. He’s felt it in the silence of unspoken words. Craig’s faith is a magnificent thing. It’s the kind of faith that moves mountains and expels demons out of the unfortunate. But Tweek can’t help thinking that it’s just not _enough_.

As if sensing the heaviness in the air, Bebe steers conversation more towards dating faux pas. Tweek has his own fair share of stories -most of them committed by him- but despite the light-heartedness, Tweek struggles to bring himself totally into the room. Part of him lingers within his own mind, unsure and stuck on the fact that he’s here, stepping into the world and leaving Craig forgotten in the dark. He slides his phone out of his pocket, part of him seeking to justify this feeling, part of him hoping that he’ll find a text telling him that his presence is required back at the rectory, but instead he finds nothing.

Their meals don’t take long to arrive. The smell has Tweek’s mouth watering before his plate is even set down. He takes a moment to admire where the dough has bubbled, charred lightly by the pizza oven. They both take an extra sprinkling of parmesan and a drizzle of oil, clinking their glasses with a ‘ _cheers_ ’ before tucking in.

Eating takes Tweek’s mind off things for a while, the gloopy cheese melting onto his tongue enough to distract him from his worries.

They talk intermittently, each too focussed on their food to make small talk although Bebe doesn’t hesitate to talk with her mouth full, which Tweek thinks is pretty un-ladylike and very cool. They pause to  exchange food: a slice of Tweek’s pizza for a forkful of Bebe’s seafood linguine (although he avoids the mussels. Colorado is too far from the ocean for him to trust the mussels and old habits die hard.)

It’s when they’re starting to pick apart the remains of their meals that Bebe really kicks off conversation again.

“So, Tweek,” she says, wiping the corner of her miraculously still-painted lips. “Where do you plan on moving to?”

The question startles Tweek, pausing his hand in its upwards trajectory to his mouth. “Moving?” he asks, confused.

Bebe frowns lightly for a moment before breaking into a small laugh. “Well, yeah? When you can afford to anyway. Are you planning on staying in Denver?”

It’s really not something Tweek has thought about. All he’s ever really seen in his future is staying at the rectory. Craig’s assured him more than once that he’s welcome there, and between the company and the feeding, Tweek is sure that he means it. So outstaying his welcome doesn’t seem like a likely possibility.

The question gives him pause for thought though. He’ll have to move out some day, right? If he’s ever going to try this dating stuff. Things happen, after all. He could settle down. Have a kid. He can’t do those things living in the rectory.

But then what happens to Craig? Who’ll greet him each day, and ask him how he’s feeling? Who will make sure he’s fed and keep him motivated with decent-quality coffee? Craig’s not the kind of guy who’d reach out and ask for company. He’d go back to how he was before, rattling around a rectory alone, talking to his guinea pigs.

“Well, I guess I’ll probably stay close to the rectory,” Tweek answers finally. “I mean if any places on the street come up for rental, I’d think about it.”

He means it as he says it, but even then it feels too far away.

“Tweek,” Bebe says softly. “I know you owe him big time, but you’re not his caretaker. You’re going to have to live your own life at some point.”

“Yeah I know that,” Tweek laughs, but it sounds nervous. Bebe’s words are making him feel uncomfortable. He calls the waitress over to order another beer. Bebe accepts another glass of wine, but the look she fixes Tweek with doesn’t waver.

“So anyway,” Tweek continues, thankful for the temporary distraction. “It’ll be awhile before I have enough put a deposit down.”

“I know,” Bebe nods. “And hey, we’re just spitballing ideas here, you know? Take it from someone who refused to do it with someone else: getting your own place is tough.”

“Yeah,” Tweek smiles, feeling an inexplicable sense of relief. “I mean, if- _when_ ,” Tweek catches himself just in time, “I’m ready to move out, I’ve got a total pro to consult with.”

“Damn right you do,” Bebe nods. “I’ve done it three times on my own.”

Tweek feels a familiar swell of admiration for her. “That’s so cool, Bebe.”

“And I’m sure the Father will support you too,” Bebe smiles.

“Yeah…” Tweek says without any conviction. He casts his mind back to the awkward conversation with Craig over him asking Bebe out on a date. Somehow he doesn’t feel like either of them are in any hurry for Tweek to move out. Quickly, he checks his phone again. Pauses, then taps out a quick message to Craig that he hopes he ate well.

“Hey,” Bebe says suddenly. She’s smiling at Tweek in that odd, understanding way that Tweek doesn’t fully understand. “Let’s grab the bill and go for a walk. You said you wanted to see this place at night.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” Tweek agrees. He flags the waitress over and pays, cutting Bebe off when she goes to pay for the drinks as promised. It’s a big hit, considering his income, but he feels a little thrill of pride that he _can_. It makes him feel like a real person again, in the stupidest possible way. An equal.

They leave the restaurant with Bebe wrapping her arms around Tweek’s once again. They head down the street at a slower pace and despite his troubling thoughts, Tweek does take in the lights and the sounds and the smells.

“I wonder if Craig would like it here,” he says, more to himself than anything.

“The Father?” Bebe asks, drawing Tweek’s attention.

“Huh? Oh,” Tweek says, realising that he’s speaking his thoughts again. “Yeah. He likes pizza and I’ve heard his taste in music. I bet he’d really love the live music here.” They wouldn’t be able to have a drink, but that would be fine. Tweek can have fun without drinking, and seeing Craig let loose would be just amazing.

Bebe hums. “He doesn’t strike me as the partying type.”

“He’s thirty-one,” Tweek says, suddenly feeling defensive. “And he’s been through some shit. He might act like a Grandpa, but he’s not. I’ve seen it, just beneath the surface. He just needs-” he trails off at Bebe’s wide eyes. It draws a slight blush to his cheeks and he looks away, not sure why the comment got his back up so badly.

“Sorry, Tweek,” Bebe says in a soft voice. “You know him best.”

“No, I-” Tweek stops. Maybe he _does_ know Craig best. He’s fairly sure that no one really knows Craig, but Tweek might just be the one who’s got the closest. “He deserves better,” Tweek says quietly.

Bebe nods and squeezes his arm. “If anyone can put a smile on his face, it’ll be you.”

Tweek looks back to her. He feels a silly smile of his own break out at the thought. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Bebe says.

Further conversation is stunted when Tweek feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Without thinking, he reaches for it, knowing precisely who it’ll be.

He smiles widely when he reads the message: [ _**Just ordered a pizza. There’s fuck all on the TV. Zzzz.** ] _

It draws a laugh from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bebe shoot him a quizzical look.

[ _ **Hope you have room for more. I bought you some pizza back.** ]_

His phone buzzes before he can even slip it back into his pocket.

[ _ **There’s always room for more pizza.** ]_

[ **:^ _P_** ]

He feels happier after that little exchange. Despite being miles away, Craig is at least fed. Bored, but fed.

The sound of Bebe clearing her throat draws him back to the present.

“The Father?” she asks, nodding her head towards where he’s just slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“Yeah,” Tweek says, smiling. “He had pizza too. I thought he might.”

Bebe nods. “Did you want to go to a bar and grab a drink?”

“Sure,” Tweek says. He’s feeling more relaxed than before and a drink sounds good.

The duck into a quirky-looking place with a lot of decorative bicycles and flower pots. The menu is full of exotic-looking cocktails, but Tweek goes with another beer. The only cocktail he’s ever much cared for is an espresso martini and once he gets started on those, there’s a good chance he’ll end up wasted.

Bebe keeps it simple too, opting for a mojito before they head off to find the quietest corner they can find. They’re half-successful. They manage to find a corner, but they still have to shout to hear each other, and Tweek has to keep batting the leaves of a nearby errant plant away from his head.

He goes to say something, but whatever it is is lost before it leaves his tongue as he spots a head of black hair atop a man’s tall frame. His heart leaps in his chest when he thinks for a moment that it might be Craig. But then the guy turns around and it so clearly isn’t Craig that Tweek feels a swell of disappointment bloom in his chest.

Bebe’s head whirls around, following his eyes. “Someone you know?” she shouts.

Tweek shakes his head, diverting his attention to his beer. “No,” he shouts back. “For a second I thought he was Craig, even though there’s no way he could be here.”

Bebe turns around again, scanning the crowd for where the man had been. After a moment she turns back and takes a sip of her cocktail. “So, how’d you like RiNo at night?”

“It’s pretty cool,” Tweek shouts back. “I wish I could have come more when I was younger, but I’m glad I finally made it here now,” he glances around again. It’s definitely everything he’d expected it to be. He just kind of, maybe wishes that he was younger and had more money. “I wonder if Craig came here. Before he became a priest I mean. You might have bumped into him!”

“I might’ve,” Bebe nods. “He might even be a drunken mistake I made,” she grins.

“No way,” Tweek snorts.

Bebe frowns slightly at that, mirth dropping from her face. “Uh, wow. Okay.”

“No!” Tweek rushes, realising how that sounded. “No I mean he’s-” he cuts himself off because _shit_. It really isn’t his place to go outing Craig. Especially not with all the issues it clearly might cause.

“He’s what?” Bebe shouts back, clearly wanting an answer.

“He’s uh, I mean he’s a priest so he can’t,” Tweek finishes lamely.

“But you were on about before he was a priest weren’t you?” Bebe frowns, still looking slightly annoyed.

“Because he’s- I mean,” Tweek flounders. He doesn’t want to hurt Bebe’s feelings, but protecting Craig is more important. “I can’t say,” he admits, shoulders slumping. “But I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Bebe looks him over for a long moment before nodding slowly. He thinks he can see understanding in her eyes, but doesn’t push the conversation any further.

They chat a little more, the atmosphere relaxing once again as they do. Bebe doesn’t seem too insulted by Tweek’s insinuation at least.

Once she finishes her drink, she inclines her head. “Shall we head out?”

Tweek nods, eagerly anticipating a break from the music. He likes it well enough, but he’s a little past yelling at his date.

They exit into the night. It’s fully dark now and the temperature has dropped. Bebe takes his arm once more, pressing up against him for warmth.

“So did you want to head on to somewhere else?” Tweek asks, tilting his head to look at her.

Bebe slows to a stop and turns back to face him, fixing him with a kind smile. “No, I think it’s time I headed home.” She says it gently, but there’s decisiveness beneath it. Surety.

Tweek knows then that he’s definitely not going home with her. Knows that there isn’t going to be a second date. Somehow, he thought the realisation would sting worse. Instead he feels… nothing, really. It’s a shame the night is coming to an end. It’s been nice. A lot of fun, honestly. But Tweek kind of feels like it’s time it came to an end.

So Tweek nods in return and takes a few more steps, starting to head towards the taxi rank. As they draw nearer, he turns to look at Bebe again.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asks, but it’s curiosity that drives him. He doesn’t inject even a faint hint of disappointment into his voice. It surprises him. He’s wanted this date for weeks. Months. And like that it’s over and he doesn’t regret it. He wouldn’t change a single detail.

“No, Tweek,” Bebe smiles. It’s a patient smile. Kind. But it’s not the same smile she wore, days ago when she had asked him to ask her out. “I had a really wonderful time and you’ve been a gentleman, but you’re not _here_.”

“I’m not here?” Tweek frowns, looking down at himself. His memories of the evening are clear, not fuzzy. He’s sure he didn’t dissociate or fall inside himself in boredom. He had a nice time. It _had_ been nice.

Bebe shakes her head and disentangles her arm. She steps close to him with a click-clack of heels and places a lovely hand on his chest, resting it there lightly. His heart rate picks up at the touch, but it’s curious and a little nervous.

“You’re here, but you’re not _here_ . With _me_. All evening you’ve been somewhere else. Your body came out, but I think your head and heart are still at home.”

“What do you mean?” Tweek asks, growing more and more perplexed. The word ‘ _home_ ’ conjures up vivid, warm images of the rectory. Of that tatty, ugly old arm chair that Craig loves so much.

“Every time I’ve spoken to you, you’ve talked about the Father. Every five minutes you’ve been checking your phone. You can’t even think of a future without him,” Bebe pats him on the chest. “I don’t know what that means, but I think you need to figure it out.”

“But I-“ Tweek starts. This time his heart does respond, jumping and hammering in his chest like an injured animal holding onto life. “You don’t understand he-” that’s right. He saved Tweek’s life. Tweek owes him. That’s all this is. Craig is a hero he’s-

“I know he helped you, Tweek. I know he’s a good man. Maybe there’s nothing else to say on it. But I think you need to figure some stuff out before you go around dating,” Bebe says. She smiles and lifts up, kissing him on the cheek.

Tweek does nothing in response, standing frozen, rooted to the ground.

All of a sudden he laughs. It’s dry, sounding forced from his throat. “You’re making it sound kind of romantic.”

Bebe shrugs. “Maybe? Or maybe it’s simply just a powerful friendship. Either way I feel like right now all of the room in your heart is very much taken up by Father Tucker. And until you figure out what that means, you won’t find any peace by dating.”

“I’m not-” he’s not _what_ ? _Gay_? Is that what it means to never want to leave Craig’s side? To want to spend the rest of his life taking care of Craig? And not out of obligation but simply because he wants to?

It’s love. He realises it with startling clarity. He _loves_ Craig. But it's natural to love your friends isn’t it? Or is that really just what this is?

He shakes his head. “Bebe I’m not sure what-” except he _is_ sure. She’s right. Tweek likes her, but it’s nothing like as strong as he feels about Craig. “I like women,” he flounders because it’s the only thing that makes sense, so he grips onto it.

“I can tell,” Bebe nods. She smiles then, as wonderful and patient as ever. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you stealing glances at my boobs. But that’s not what I’m saying. There’s a lot of things this could be. Perhaps all you need is time to adjust.”

Tweek nods, unable to think of a response to any of that.

Bebe steps forward, flagging a taxi down. Tweek watches silently as it rolls to a stop beside her.

“Are you going to get home okay?” Bebe asks.

Tweek shrugs. “Yeah. I know where I’m going, thanks.”

Bebe opens the taxi door, pausing and tapping the top of it as she makes to step in.

“For what it’s worth, Tweek, I enjoyed tonight. You’re a good date,” she says, smiling. “Whatever it is you’re feeling, I hope you work it out. Although, for your sake I hope you’re _not_ in love with him, because falling for a priest is a fast-track to heartbreak.”

Tweek has nothing to say in response. He lifts his hand and waves Bebe off, but his mind is far, far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we finally have a break through. Tweek's been feeling something for a while now, but we've all been there, thinking that we're 100% straight when really, if we get the right push...


	17. Chapter 16

The first thing that helps Tweek reconcile his feelings is the fact that his desire to go home and be with Craig outweighs his desire to patrol the streets of RiNo, caught up in his turbulent self-reflection. He’s always thought that- when agonising over a crisis of self- he’d wander the streets like a guy straight out of a cheap indie music video. He never thought he’d want to run _to_ the source.

But he does. All he can think about is going home and curling up on the sofa and talking to Craig. It’s so unlike him. He’s spent his entire life avoiding conflict, only snapping and fighting back when pushed, or passionately believing that it’s the right thing to do.

He has no such conviction over this. Neither of his options look good from any perspective. Either he’s so friend-starved that he’s completely unable to distinguish what simple friendship looks like. Or he’s suddenly gay and has fallen in love with a priest.

Pausing, Tweek places a hand to the wall closest to him, steadying himself as he moans in disbelief.

Where had the thought of being _in love_ even come from?

Bebe just implied that his feelings might be a smidge more romantic than friendship. She hadn’t mentioned anything about being _in love_ . Not _really_.

What the fuck does being in love even feel like? Tweek’s _never_ been in love before. He’s liked his previous girlfriends and loves his parents (more fool him), but he’s never even flirted with the idea of being in love before.

It’s supposed to be electric, if the movies are to believed. It’s meant to be all-encompassing and beautiful. It’s the stuff people walk through fires for. Lose their heads over.

Craig doesn’t feel like that. He feels warm and safe and freeing. Tweek can be his entire self around Craig without feeling like an idiot. And electricity? Well, there was that weird encounter in the kitchen. And the way Craig looked at him earlier and-

Tweek’s eyes widen in shock.

He’s doomed. Plain and simple. All of this is just evidence of what an utter fuck up he is at being normal. He could have just been friends with the guy who saved him. Could have just enjoyed hanging out with him. Could have looked forward to the prospect of moving out and dating and being an everyday guy finally.

But of course, Tweek can’t even do that much. No, he wants to spend his every moment at Craig’s side. He wants to fall asleep to the sound of his voice, feeling safe and cared about. He wants to see him every single day and misses him when he doesn’t. He wants to make him laugh his worries away.

It all cycles back to the question of this all just being friendship. A powerful friendship, yes, but still just friendship. Is Tweek really _that_ lonely that he can’t even even tell the difference?

Releasing a soft, almost silent breath, Tweek turns to lean heavily against the wall. To another he might look like he’s doing a good impression of a guy who’s had too much to drink. He kind of wishes he had. He feels like if he were drunk, he’d be able to make some snap, meaningful decision in that unfiltered state of mind. That, or he’d just laugh all this off.

But Tweek is a couple of beers down and reeling from a metaphorical slap in the face. He takes another steadying breath. Then another. Ironically his mind flits to Craig and his love of logic, despite his following his faith. He thinks on how Craig has told him to solve problems before: break them down. Focus on fixing the constituent parts. The parts that are in your capacity to fix.

Loving friends is normal. Check. Therefore having love for Craig is normal. Check. Romantic love is physical and emotional. Like friendship with the added extras.

Tweek pauses his thoughts on that. His mind is still fluttering like a trapped bird, desperate to break into spiralling, anxious thoughts, but Tweek scowls and grips on grimly. He’s hanging on by a fingernail, but he’s hanging on because this feels too important to lose his mind over. It’s too important to damage and losing it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Romantic love is kissing and fucking. Holding someone close and stroking their hand and kissing their hair. At least, it looks that way in movies. Tweek has fucked and kissed, but he can’t remember holding someone close.

An image leaps to his mind. Craig’s hand on his, gripping him and keeping him grounded. That soft, warm touch had felt so safe. The heat of it had sunk into his skin and penetrated deeper, down into the very fabric between his cells. Back then he thought it had been because he was touch-starved, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s never felt like that before.

Slowly, Tweek lifts his hand. He clenches it into a loose fist and presses it over his heart. His heart gives a funny, little jump in response. Unsure, but not afraid. It feels more like it’s stirring with cautious optimism, like a sleepy mammal awakening from a long, long winter’s rest.

He thinks of Craig’s bed. How he sought his scent amidst the sheets. Why? For comfort? Or something more base? Base like that dim arousal he’d felt when his mind had wandered too far into thoughts of Craig and Thomas fucking around. Of Craig sucking cock.

Tweek swallows hard at that. His heart leaps in his chest in something like shock. Or maybe excitement. Because would he say no to Craig dropping on his knees and unzipping his pants?

The fact that his reaction isn’t revulsion tells more more about his assumed straightness than a slap in the face. Would he reject Craig? He instinctively knows the answer is no. He’s certain that he wouldn’t. He’s equally as certain -alarmed, but certain- that he wouldn’t hate it. Wouldn’t hate kissing him, or sliding his hands over him. Maybe the addition of something extra in his pants and the lack of something extra on top would throw him, but he’s pretty sure that it wouldn’t be a _bad_ thing.

Because Craig is Craig. He’s wonderful, and he smells good, and his voice is low and flat but so enriching, and his hands are big and warm and gentle. Despite being a man, Tweek thinks that he would be a good lover. The thought of the scent of sex on his skin, or that voice gasping in his ear, or his long fingers wrapped around Tweek’s cock send a hot thrill through Tweek. The warmth pools in his groin and floods into his balls.

Cheeks flushed red, Tweek pushes off the wall. His mind is suddenly swimming with half-formed fantasies like he’s never had before. Dazed, he staggers towards the taxi rank, lifting a hand to flag down a taxi. It only takes a moment for one to roll up. When Tweek slips into it feels like it’s been years since he saw Bebe off.

The world has shifted so monumentality on its axis that it may as well be years. Before tonight Tweek was a straight man, and now his heart and dick are throbbing over the thought of returning home to Craig.

Assumed straight, at least. Despite being surprising, admitting an attraction to Craig doesn’t feel as strange as it should. It’s never occurred to him to think about another man that way, but it’s not like he’s spent his every waking moment daydreaming about women. He’s always just breezed along. Always said yes to whichever lady was kind enough to show an interest

The lights flash by as the taxi speeds home. Tweek rests his forehead against the window, hoping that the cool surface will sink through his skin and into his brain, chilling his frantic, heated thoughts. It works, after a fashion. His budding boner calms as logic and reason set up twin camps in his mind.

That Tweek might possibly be sexually, and romantically attracted to Craig isn’t an issue. It’s a surprise, sure. Causing Tweek to have to rapidly re-assess everything he thought he knew about himself? Definitely. But now that the whirlwind of shock and confusion has receded slightly, Bebe’s words from earlier slip back into his thoughts like a dull echo.

Regardless of Tweek’s feelings, strong friendship, or so much more, nothing changes the fact that Craig is a priest. If Tweek wants to be by his side forever -which is feeling more like the case by the moment- then it has to be something entirely innocent and extremely platonic. It’s little use Tweek agonising over whether he is now a little bit gay, or perhaps always has been. Craig is still a _priest_. Even if Tweek’s feelings have changed between him leaving the rectory tonight, and him returning to it alone, Craig is still a priest. He is still living a life where he rejects his desires and refuses the touch of another.

Even if Tweek feels _things_ for him, it’s not like he can act on it. So it shouldn’t be worth thinking about. It should be straight forward. Except it’s not. It’s making Tweek’s heart squeeze painfully and a cold sweat prick on his skin.

All too soon, and not soon enough, Tweek’s taxi pulls up outside the rectory. He barely pays attention as he reaches over and presses a twenty into the guy’s hand. He doesn’t even bother to collect his change, jumping out of the taxi and onto the pavement in a rush.

And then he isn’t so sure what he wants to do. Or what he even _should_ do. He wants to see Craig so bad, but he’s terrified that everything will be different. That somehow Craig will _know_. And by knowing, what they have will be broken because Craig’s love belongs to his God, and all Tweek can ever be is his tag-along.

Still, Tweek considers as he stares across the lawn, taking in the soft light filtering through the windows of the rectory. The thought of not spending every day at Craig’s side fills him with a sickening dread. Tweek has never felt half as content as he does when he sits at the table and watches as Craig shovels his food into his mouth. If the trade off for that is never fucking another woman, it kind of feels worth it. Bathroom wanks don’t come close to the touch of another human being, but the deep-seated joy that comes from sitting in comfortable silence with the greatest guy on earth touches him so much deeper than the temporary high of orgasm.

With that thought prevailing, Tweek takes a cautious step towards the rectory. Each step feels easier than the last, as if he feels lighter with each one. He should be shit scared, but he’s too busy feeling rushed on by a nervous, excited energy.

He’s at the door in just a few strides. He sucks in a breath. Tries to tell himself that nothing will be different when he steps through the door. Knows that it will be. Decides that he doesn’t care anyway.

He tests the handle and finds the door still open. Sucking in a breath, Tweek swings the door outwards and steps through, turning the close it softly behind himself and feed the chain through the lock. Slowly he turns around to face the hallway.

The moment he does, he’s hit with a wonderful warmth. It’s a physical warmth: he’s safely tucked away from the crisp early autumn air outside, seeping in as soon as the sun’s rays have dipped below the horizon. But it’s more than that too. The warmth penetrates him, sinking into his bones and deeper still, carried by the soft sounds of the TV, and the visuals of old, tacky nicknacks lining an outdated hallway. Unbelievably, he feels his lips jerk into a wonky smile.

Slowly Tweek pads forwards, compelled by that same urge to see Craig. It’s gentler now, calmer. A purring cat knowing that the dinner bowl is about to be handed down to it. He follows the noise of the TV, entering the living room a few moments later, his quirked lips pulling into a full smile the moment he sees Craig sprawled lazily across the length of the sofa.

On seeing him, Craig blinks in surprise, using the back of the sofa to haul himself upright. “You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be.”

It’s a simple comment, but Tweek thinks he can detect a note of relief on Craig’s voice. It makes his stomach squirm happily.

“Yeah,” Tweek says with a shrug, still smiling. He moves to stand before the sofa, hovering over where Craig’s long legs remain stretched out. Taking the hint, Craig pulls them back, silently offering him a spot beside him.

Tweek takes it with a grateful sigh, sinking onto the worn sofa. He tosses the bag of leftovers onto the coffee table and then hikes his feet up onto it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Craig watching him closely. Turning, he fixes him with an affectionate smile, warmed by the fact that he can see the worry on Craig’s face. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Craig says, looking away. He goes to teach for the bag, pausing and sitting back on a second thought. “You’re just earlier than I thought you’d be.”

Tweek takes a moment to dissect that, laughing when he does. He can hardly help it: Craig’s concern is adorable. “What time were you _expecting_ me home? Tomorrow morning?” At Craig’s very faint blush, Tweek figures he’s hit the nail on the head. “What kind of boy do you think I am, Craig?” He teases. As he says it, he realises that it sounds flirtatious where before he would have written it off as joking around. Christ, is this what Craig has been living with?

Craig scowls at him and reaches for the bag again, snatching it up and diving inside. “Fuck off,” he mumbles, reaching in and snagging a slice of pizza. There’s no heat behind it though, and Tweek feels ridiculously pleased that he’s managed to bring a flush to Craig’s cheeks.

With reluctance, Tweek drags his eyes away. He can’t recall staring at Craig before, but suddenly everything about him is interesting. The cut of his jaw as he chews, the flash of white teeth, the quick flick of a tongue to capture strings of cheese. The latter makes Tweek’s own cheeks warm up. He clears his throat, rattling himself away from wherever that thought was taking him.

“I had a good time,” Tweek says, unsure of what he’s saying, even as the words leave his mouth. He has zero reason to justify himself, but somehow he wants to explain everything to Craig. “But we won’t go on another date.”

Craig pauses in his second big bite of pizza. He stares at Tweek for a moment before chewing slowly and swallowing in a loud gulp. “You know that for sure?” He asks tentatively.

Tweek nods, shifting to lean more heavily against the sofa. “Mmhmm,” he nods. “I know for sure.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Craig says, looking legitimately sad. “I know you really like her. For what it’s worth, I think she needs her head looking at.”

Unable to help himself, Tweek laughs at Craig’s muttered words. The indignation that Craig feels over Tweek’s crush not liking him back warms Tweek to the core. It draws a surprised look from Craig, his brow creasing lightly in confusion.

“Sorry,” Tweek says, his voice coloured with lighthearted amusement. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Thank you, Craig,” he says, gifting Craig with a warm smile that makes Craig’s expression soften. “Thank you for thinking so highly of me; it means a lot. But it’s really fine. I realised when we were out that me and Bebe are better off as friends and I think she felt the same way.”

“Oh,” Craig says. He doesn't say anything else, but Tweek thinks he sees a flicker of relief. For some reason, it sets his pulse racing.

“Have you ever liked a woman romantically?” He asks suddenly, almost breathless.

He has no idea why he’s asked it, and judging by the look on Craig’s face, neither does Craig. It’s too late to take back though, hanging in the air and impossible to ignore without being obvious about it.

“Uh, Tweek I’m a priest so probably not the best person to ask here,” Craig says. To the average individual, Craig says it flatly and completely without emotion. But Tweek knows him better. Can hear the sudden nervousness creeping into Craig’s voice.

“No, I know I just-” Tweek doesn’t know. He barely has a clue what he’s stumbling around at. He’s playing a dangerous game, upsetting the fragile, tender balance that sits between them and prying clumsily into Craig’s life. But still, somehow it feels important. Like he needs to know. Spurred on by that, Tweek verbally stumbles forward. “Despite everything, before you became a priest, you seem like you were so sure of your sexuality. Did you really never think you could never love a woman romantically?”

For a long moment, Craig stares at him, visibly getting a measure of him. He searches Tweek’s face in a way that makes his skin prickle with cold sweat, but he meets and holds Craig’s stare despite desperately fighting back a twitch.

Eventually, Craig’s shoulders sink as he sighs. “I’m not sure what you’re angling at, but okay. Fine. Let’s suspend disbelief and go back to before I was a priest.” He settles back against the sofa, relaxing minisculely, although he maintains a weary distance from Tweek. “I guess- Okay. I did know a guy once. He was a total fag, always taking guys home after a night out partying. But then he fell for this one chick who hung out on our scene. _Really_ fell for her. And it was crazy and God only knows if they stayed together, but it happened and I felt like it was real.

“So at push _could_ I have maybe liked a woman romantically? I doubt it. I’ve always liked- _did_ like- men. Knew from a young age that women never held any sort of attraction to me. But that doesn’t mean I think it’s absolutely impossible for people to fall for someone unexpected,” he shrugs. “If we’re talking about the hypothetical, if I’d met someone I just clicked with like that guy did, maybe I _could_ have given it a go. I doubt it would have worked for me, but I can’t say that it was utterly impossible. But in the end, I’d still rather a life of celibacy over a loveless, attraction-less marriage to a woman, which is the only other way I could really serve God.”

At such an honest answer, Tweek can’t help but reel back in surprise. Someone to _click_ with. Put that way, it didn’t sound so totally crazy. If even Craig -once so proudly and fiercely gay- could entertain the notion that he could have possibly loved a woman, despite being extremely unlikely…  Well then. Is it really so insane for Tweek -who’s never even really felt anything overwhelming for another person in his _life_ \- to consider having a man as a partner?

“Thank you, Craig,” Tweek says, almost too soft to hear. At Craig’s bewildered frown, he knows he’s been heard.

“It’s fine,” Craig shrugs. “It’s not like it’s anything but theoretical anyway. I’m not going to miraculously be free of the homosexual affliction one day.”

Tweek frowns in response to that. “It’s not an-”

“Yeah, yeah I know. I was being facetious,” Craig interrupts him, rolling his eyes for good measure. “Chill, will you?”

They sit in silence for a moment. Tweek tries not to reflect too much on Craig’s choice in word, but _affliction_ is such a nasty, horrible way to put it. He may have been joking, but people genuinely regarded it as something akin to illness. A blight. Especially those who would call themselves Craig’s colleagues.

“Sorry I asked a weird question,” Tweek says, still embarrassed. He shakes away the sour taste in his mouth. Craig’s comment doesn’t sit right with him, but he's still strangely glad that he asked. That his mouth is seemingly autonomous from his brain.

Craig regards him for a long moment before smiling slightly and reaching for a slice of pizza. And like that, the tension is gone. Not entirely forgotten, but definitely fled to the darkened corners of the room, far away from the glow of the TV screen.

“You’re a weirdo. It’s normal to ask weird questions,” Craig says. He takes a huge bite of pizza as if to punctuate it. A greasy, delicious full stop to end the conversation.

Unable to help himself, Tweek smiles. He falls into a comfortable silence, content to simply share the space with Craig. They end up watching TV together, Craig moving to swipe up pizza, munching on it quietly.

Despite the mundanity of it, Tweek feels a ripple of fondness flow through him. He’s safe here; demons, and loneliness, and apathy far, far away. Craig’s mere presence fills his senses, quiet and strong, and reassuringly _there._

Tweek falls asleep to that thought. At least he thinks he does, because the next thing he’s aware of, morning is shining through the slatted blinds, and he’s lying on his side, tucked up under a blanket.

 

**

Once he’s showered and eaten, Tweek situates himself at the kitchen table and mulls over last night. He stares into the coffee clasped between his hands as if it’s a crystal ball, peering into its opaque depths as if it might hold the answers he’s looking for.

It doesn’t, but then, he doesn’t really know which questions he’s asking in the first place.

He’s not hungover, so he knows for certain that he can’t write of last night’s crazy feelings as a drunken misadventure. They’ve intensified, if anything, in the cold light of day. It started with the precious knowledge that Craig bundled him up in a blanket last night, and was most recently kindled by a sticky note on the coffee pack saying “this one smells good. Thought you’d like it.”

Smiling again, Tweek dips his head to take an inhale. It _does_ smell good. Columbian. Not that Craig would know, but that didn’t matter. Craig knows jack shit about coffee and even less about how to make it right. But he still thinks about Tweek as if it’s second nature. Still buys him something that smells good because that’s all he has to go on.

Tweek can picture him, standing in the supermarket, sniffing packets. Probably getting funny looks off old ladies. If he was in his dog collar, he’d probably politely nod. If he was out of it, he’d flip them off.

An intensely warm fondness washes over Tweek and, unable to help it, a laugh peels out of him. In some ways, it’s like knowing someone with a split personality, but Tweek knows that it’s all Craig. Regardless of how much Craig has to act the part and reject parts of himself he shouldn’t have to reject, Craig in uniform is still uniquely Craig.

He finds his mind once again drifting to the idea of Craig as a younger man. Despite not wanting to change a thing, Tweek still desperately wishes he could know the boy he saw in the photograph. Young, and free, and on the arm of a boy he loved.

A sudden thought strikes him then. He chews his lip, contemplating before he rises to his feet and heads into the living room to fetch Craig’s old laptop. After tucking it under his arm, and collecting the power cord, Tweek returns to the kitchen, plugging it in and sitting down at the table.

He’s used the laptop a couple of times before. Craig invited him to use it whenever he needed to, preferring to use his phone to browse the internet. Tweek hasn’t had much cause to use it: his already quiet social life has been dead in the water since his possession.

He watches as the timer swirls around, the length of time denoting just how old the laptop is. It eventually starts up with a chime and Tweek fills the time it needs to sluggishly connect by making himself another coffee.

And then he sets to work. He starts off by searching out Craig. It’s easy enough, the top results being newspaper articles about the massacre of his family. Wincing, but not deterred, Tweek narrows his search down to include the term “University of Arizona”. Nearly an hour of digging later brings him to an article, nearly fifty pages into the search, published by the university newspaper. It’s not particularly interesting, a bunch of students making their way to the NASA training centre to meet some professor or other, but there in the photograph stands Craig amidst some fellow students.

“Gotcha,” Tweek whispers to himself, eyes fixing on a blond kid with short locks and a smattering of freckles. Beneath the picture he finds the name _Thomas Harper_.

Tweek sits back, stomach squeezing in victory. He celebrates by getting back to his feet and claiming the prize of another cup of coffee.

When he sits back down his resolve is strengthened all the more. He moves on to Facebook, logging in after getting his password wrong four times. When he eventually gets on, he avoids looking at his notifications. Partially because he doesn’t want to see anything that might allude to his time under the demon’s influence. Mostly because he’s afraid that no one will have reached out to him.

Forcing himself away from those thoughts, Tweek clicks on the search bar and types in Thomas Harper’s name. Unsurprisingly, Facebook throws several pages of _Thomas Harpers_ back at him. He pauses to take a big gulp of coffee, savouring it before he begins his real endeavour. Scrolling slowly, his eyes dart over pictures, pausing every time he catches a glimpse of blond locks. It takes nearly twenty-five minutes before his eyes flit over to a profile picture, dart away and then quickly return.

Thomas grins back at him. He’s a small face in a round bubble, but Tweek is definitely sure that it’s the same Thomas.

Licking his lips, Tweek clicks on his profile. It’s locked down, but relief still floods Tweek when he can make out that Thomas belongs to the University of Arizona alumni group. It’s definitely him.

Unsure how to feel suddenly, Tweek bounces back to his feet and moves over to the coffee pot. He makes up a fresh brew, mind distracted the entire time over how he’s meant to do this. He’s pretty sure that he can’t come up with the perfect answer, even if he had a hundred years, so making a coffee certainly doesn’t give him much to go on. So it’s with some reluctance, he heads back to the laptop, feeling a lot less sure of himself.

Reaching out, he rests his spider-like fingers over the keys. They twitch uselessly, like a dying creature caught in its final throes. A sharp pain enters Tweek’s awareness. He swipes his tongue out and the answering sting confirms that he’s been subconsciously chewing on his lip.

Finally, finally after long minutes of deliberation, he sends a simple message:

_Hi, Thomas. I’m sorry for contacting you out of the blue, but I wanted to know if you remembered Craig Tucker?_

He hits send. His stomach roils in a sudden flurry of nerves, but it’s too late to take it back. He reasons that Thomas will be at work. That maybe he doesn’t use Facebook at all. That Craig is a bad word to him and he’ll ignore it.

But then, not days, or hours, or even minutes later, Tweek hears the chime of a message. He shrieks, starting with far too much drama and nearly spilling his coffee all over himself and the floor. The nervous feeling in his stomach intensifies to full on nausea and he has to swallow hard to keep his throat from constricting.

“Oh God,” he mutters to himself like a mantra as he hesitantly leans in closer to the screen. “Oh God, Oh God-”

**_Craig Tucker? Jesus. There’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time. Who are you?_ **

Okay, so Thomas doesn’t seem to be dripping venom over Craig. It’s a good start.

Still nervous, Tweek taps back.

_My name is Tweek. I’m living with him at the moment._

On sending it, he grunts in horror, realising how that sounds.

_Not as a boyfriend or anything!_

_I mean he’s my friend._

_He’s a priest I mean. He saved me._

Oh Jesus Christ. He’s five messages in and already looks like a lunatic. With a dramatic groan, Tweek drops his head onto his arm.

Still, like last time, the laptop chimes again. Faster this time.

**_He’s still a priest? I was worried he would have done something stupid by now. I’m glad he’s still around._ **

Tweek frowns, licking the cut in his lip. He knows exactly what Thomas means by ‘something stupid.’ Had Craig really been that bad?

 _Yeah. He’s still a priest. A really great one_.

**_Kind of crazy to think about, but cool. I’m glad he’s doing okay._ **

Tweek isn’t entirely sure that Craig is “okay”, but given that Thomas thought he might be very _not okay_ , he guesses that everything is relative.

**_I’m not being rude, but how come you looked for me? I’m guessing you know that Craig and I were friends once._ **

Friends. Tweek casts his mind back to the photograph. The two smiling faces. It had been so much more than that, surely.

 _I know that you meant a lot to him_.

It’s probably not a very subtle approach, but it’s too late to take it back when an animated ellipsis pops up.

**_How much is ‘a lot’?_ **

Tweek releases a breath. Time to be direct.

_Like he loved you a lot?_

**_Why are you contacting me?_ **

Tweek winces. He hopes that he’s not causing any upset, but that’s definitely not a friendly response.

_I’m sorry. I’m not trying to stir up trouble. Craig saved my life and he’s told me a bit about his own life. I know that he loved you and that you were together, but that he lost you before he became a priest. I know I’m prying and have no right to know, but I found a picture of you both and he looks so happy in it. I guess I just want to know more about who he was. He’s the best friend I could ask for, but I wish I knew more about the him that came before being a priest._

The ellipsis pops up again. Stays on screen for a long time. Seconds trickle by into minutes until Tweek isn’t sure he’ll even get a response. He pictures Thomas, starting to type, deleting, typing again. Maybe walking away all together.

**_He still has a picture of us?_ **

It’s simple, hardly the essay Tweek was anticipating. There’s something so meaningful in that response. It’s weird. Tweek is nothing by a bystander to this relationship, but somehow it still chokes him up a little.

_Yeah man. I know he’s a priest and he knows he’s not supposed to be open about being gay anymore, but you meant a lot to him. He talks about you sometimes and it’s always positive._

Another pause. Another anxious wait. But it’s shorter this time.

**_Our breakup wasn’t nasty or anything. It wasn’t like we stopped loving each other. I still loved him, but it was so hard watching him killing himself and I wanted to graduate._ **

**_I did try. I’ve blamed myself for years, but I was just a kid._ **

**_So was he though._ **

**_I don’t know what I’m trying to say._ **

Tweek’s heart lurches in response. There’s nothing bad about this guy. How could there be? Craig would never have loved an asshole.

_Please don’t feel bad! That’s not my intention!_

_He’s doing good. He’s respected by the community and he does good things. He’s done so much for me too._

**_I’m glad to hear that :-)_ **

**_He didn’t deserve what happened to him. I thought for years that if I could change things, I would. But then if I did that I wouldn’t be with my boyfriend now._ **

**_But even then, I’ve felt so guilty that I’m happy and he might be lonely. Or worse. I’m glad he has you :-)_ **

Tweek writes ‘me too’ before quickly hammering on the backspace button. He sits back and takes a shaky breath, a little concerned as to how he’s coming across. It’s great to talk to Thomas, but he’s starting to feel like he’s intruding. He only had good intentions, but talking to Thomas has raised more questions than it has answers.

_You don’t have to answer, but what happened back then?_

_I’m not being nosey. He’s just such a great guy but apart from Token, he doesn’t seem to have much contact with anyone from his past._

There’s a slightly longer pause than earlier. Tweek gets the sudden, cold feeling that he’s pushed too quickly.

**_He’s still friends with Token? That’s good._ **

**_I mean no offence, but why are you bringing this up?_ **

Tweek reads that. Really reads it, the words sinking into his flesh and burying into his chest. Why _is_ he asking? What could he possibly hope to gain from knowing?

Biting his lip, Tweek decides to let go, letting his honest feelings flow onto the screen.

_I’m sorry for contacting you. I just didn’t know who else to talk to. Craig is okay, but I don’t feel like he’s really moving forward. I feel like I’m projecting my own lack of faith onto him and I know that I don’t understand his devotion to God, but I can see that he struggles. Before I came along he didn’t celebrate his birthday, he spent all his time alone when he wasn’t working. It’s like I found him frozen in amber. And sometimes it’s like he gives me this glimpse of this funny, kind of sassy, guy before he shoves it back into a box. I don’t feel like he can be who he really is. I think becoming a priest gave him purpose and direction after losing his family, but I think it’s meant he can’t be his whole self. Maybe it has to stay that way, but I want to know who he was before everything fell apart. I know I’m dragging a load of shit up and I appreciate if you’re mad. You’re just the only person I can ask because I think you knew the real him._

Tweek turns his head away, unwilling to look at the big, emotional splurge on the screen. No doubt Thomas will probably think him crazy now.

But then the laptop chimes. And then chimes again.

**_Don’t be sorry._ **

**_I’m kind of glad you reached out to me. I did love him and it’s not like I haven’t wondered how he’s doing._ **

**_I won’t go into too much detail, but yeah. Craig was the funniest guy I knew. Not funny ha-ha, but he was so snarky, he used to make me laugh til I cried._ **

**_I have Tourette’s. It’s made my life miserable at points, but Craig never cared. He used to joke that he liked dirty talk but I needed to tone it down in public. Or he’d shout obscenities too to make me stand out less. He really was a good guy. Not soft and cuddly. He was an asshole and he knew it, but he liked people well enough. Everyone knew that he was a good guy. People just tended to gravitate towards him. He had this pull with his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude._ **

**_He was so smart too. We met on an astronomy programme at college and his mind was crazy sharp. When we were dating he’d drive me crazy with how logical he was. It took a lot of time for him to soften and appreciate feelings better, but he got there._ **

**_We were happy though. We argued sometimes and he could be a real bitch but he was a really good guy. And he never hid anything. Everyone knew he was out and everyone knew he was with the weird guy with Tourette’s. It helped after how shitty high school was for me. I honestly thought that we were going to be together forever. He was on course to get really high marks and we planned to move to California and work at the Ames Research Center together._ **

**_And then that shit went down with his parents and he fell apart. It was horrible to watch. To start with I thought he was going to be okay. He seemed to be holding it together pretty well. But then the drinking started and it just didn’t stop. At first I thought it was normal and that he just needed to take the edge off. But then it got out of control. It started off as days and then weeks without him being sober. He was given compassionate leave from college, but then he didn’t bother turning up to any lectures the next semester. It started affecting my own studies. I’d miss them because I’d be trying to take care of him. I tried to make him stop so many times, but he always found ways to get more. We started getting letters from the bank that his rent checks were bouncing and I found out that he’d basically drunk his money away._ **

**_I didn’t know what to do. I argued with him, and threatened to leave him, and begged him to see someone. And he’d agree and make promises, but then if I dared to leave our apartment I’d come home and he’d be passed out, or hanging around a local bar. All of our friends were sympathetic, but there was only so much they could do. They all had their own lives and studies. I tried, but it got to the point where I had no one to turn to and no one to help either of us. He couldn’t see me any more. He just existed in a constant cycle of trying to numb himself to everything._ **

**_I tried getting him onto a rehab programme, tried getting him into hospital, but we didn’t have the money, especially since I was trying to cover rent for both of us and he was taking money off me. When I felt like I couldn’t take any more, that old priest who helped him sort his parents out showed up. I don’t really believe too much in God and Craig was an atheist, but I felt like he was some sort of divine intervention. I broke down like a baby on him and he promised me he’d take over Craig’s care._ **

**_And then I walked away. I hated myself for it for years, over how I could turn my back on someone I loved. But it was killing me. I was emotionally and financially exhausted. Nothing I’d tried had worked and I knew I’d only keep failing._ **

**_I recuperated at a friend’s place. I kept in touch with the priest and he told me that he was taking Craig back to Boulder for a while. That he had some ideas on how to help him. I had less contact as time went by, until eventually the priest told me that Craig was sober and was going to take the cloth. It sounded crazy since he was out and proud, and he didn’t even believe in God, but I thought that if it was enough to save him, it would do._ **

Tweek’s eyes are damp by the time he finishes reading the whole sorry tale. It’s not far off what he guessed.

Unexpectedly, he thinks of his own parents. He’s under no illusions that they’re good parents, but Thomas’ words remind him that no one is equipped to deal with this sort of shit. Possession -demonic or addiction- is sad and it’s hard and it’s shitty. People are just people. Fallible creatures that do the best they can in crappy situations. His parents and friends would have had about as much idea of what to do as Thomas did. Few people are trained, fewer still are prepared to take the sheer abuse of patience and compassion.

A tear trickles down his cheek. Tweek hurriedly wipes it away, unsure who he is weeping for. Himself? Craig? Or the people who have been hurt along the way? Everyone is a victim to some extent. Some more than others, maybe, but no one has been entirely free from the burden of suffering.

And that must be why demons thrive as they do. Creeping insidiously at the fringes, waiting to pounce like a fat cat on a limping mouse. Tweek can feel them, scratching away at the corners of reality, thick and hot and viscous. They’re not his demon. _His_ demon is gone, damned back to Hell and sentenced to spend the next eternity climbing back out. But Tweek knows they’re there, ready to prey on the vulnerable, and delighting as humans do the job for them; killing themselves fast or slow, lost in a pit of their own misery.

The modern world, Tweek realises, must be a veritable candy store for the forces of darkness. People have never been so connected, and still so lonely. They’ve never had so much free time, but have so little will to fill it. They’ve never had so much, but felt so empty.

Tweek shudders. He understands why a man can find faith where he had none before. Gets why a lost soul can find its way into the embrace of the church, because it’s better than becoming a feast for demons.

His fingers twitch. How would Thomas react if he knew that demons were real. That faith had real power? Would he laugh and think Tweek a nut? Would he really never believe that Craig went on to become a hero?

He realises that he’s been keeping Thomas waiting. He has no idea what Thomas is feeling now. Probably emotional, given that he so clearly once loved Craig.

_He’s so much better now. He doesn’t drink at all and he was upfront about it with me._

**_That’s good to hear. Really good. The last time I saw him, he was in a really bad way._ **

_He’s healthy now. I make sure he gets the right food down him. He pushes himself a bit too hard and he doesn’t take enough breaks, but he’s helping people all the time even though he doesn’t always see it._

**_Sounds like_** **_Craig. He was always nosey, but hated getting attention. :-)_**

Tweek laughs softly at that, voice still a little clotted from unshed tears. Sounds like the Craig of now isn’t too far removed from his old self.

_He’s like that now. I think he deserves way more attention for what he does. He’s the best friend a guy could ask for._

Tweek pauses as he re-reads through that. Yesterday the term ‘best friend’ felt right. But now it feels cheaper somehow. So much less. An inadequate description for how important Craig is to him.

_Please tell me more about how he used to be. I want to know what he was like, if it’s not too painful for you._

His fingers twitch over the keys in anxious excitement. He’ll understand if Thomas refuses, but he has so much hope alight in his heart. He wants to know Craig so badly. All of Craig. The real him beneath the vestments.

It’s slow at first, hesitant even, as if Thomas is ripping off an age-old scab to let the air get into it. But the words do flow, Tweek’s heart growing more full with every short paragraph. He feels as if he’s stepping back through the years, digging down deeper and deeper and reaching for the boy that Craig once was.

They spend a couple of hours going back and forth. If Thomas has a job, it’s taking a backseat to his memories of an old boyfriend. He asks his own questions too, inquiring into the Craig of now with as much wonder as Tweek holds for the past.

By the time they say goodbye, Tweek’s added him to his friends. He sits back and digests his mixed-up feelings. In a lot of ways he’s never felt so close to Craig as he has in this moment. He’s filled with warmth. It’s tinged at the edges with sadness, but it leaves Tweek feels full to the brim with a feeling so foreign and so beautiful that it doesn’t even occur to him what it is for a good twenty minutes after Thomas logs off.

And when it hits him, it doesn’t knock him out of his seat. It’s a slow, warm, trickling feeling that immediately gets swallowed by a much colder sensation.

For the first time in his entire life, Tweek has finally fallen in love. And it’s with someone that he absolutely can’t have.

 

TWEEK END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three promises:
> 
> 1\. I know what I'm doing with this and where it's going, so it's not going to trail off, don't worry!  
> 2\. I'm not tired of writing it; I just have a busy job!  
> 3\. We're entering our third and final act now!


	18. Chapter 17

CRAIG II

 

“Tweek?” Craig shouts. The worry in his voice is clear now, where before he’d tried to remain calm. It’s scratchy at the edges with concern, taught in his throat.

The empty corridor offers no response, dirty light filtering through glass lamps wearing a thick and crusted layer of dust.

What the fuck is Tweek _doing_ here? Why now, of all times? Why when things were starting to feel okay for the first time in a lifetime?

“Tweek! I’m not fucking around here!” Craig shouts again. He hears movement behind him and whirls on the ball of his foot to face it, only to be greeted again by emptiness. A shiver ripples up his spine, hair raising at the back of his neck.

Something feels off. Everything feels off. Tweek is running from him and secrets lurk like monsters around every corner.

“ _Tweek!_ ” He shouts again, refusing to let panic seep into his voice. He’s being illogical, letting emotion rule his head. He just needs to find Tweek. Then things will make sense.

“Craig!” Tweek’s voice filters back to him. “I’m over here!”

Craig’s eyes scan the corridor, head turning back and forth as he tries to discern the direction of Tweek’s voice. “Over where?” Craig calls out. The rush of relief that accompanies it throws him. What _exactly_ was he so afraid of?

“ _Here!_ ” Tweek shouts with an almost playful lilt to his voice. “What’s taking you so long?”

Cautiously, Craig makes his mind up, striding towards where he thinks Tweek is calling to him. He rounds a corner, descending a small series of steps cut into the stone of the floor. It’s been so long since he really explored the church, but was it really always so full of twisty, windy corridors?

“Tweek?” He calls again, testing his guess.

“Craig?” Tweek responds, muffled.

Craig’s eyes widen. He lurches forward, near jogging until he comes upon an old door a few moments later. Pausing, he places his palm against the wood, finding it oddly warm to the touch.

He hesitates then, unsure. He’ll find Tweek behind the door. He’ll find Tweek and they’ll go home. Except suddenly, he’s not sure that’s what he’s going to find when he opens the door.

Scowling, he curses himself a fool and reaches for the handle. Licking his lips, he jerks the door open. A rush of cold greets him, but it’s colder than just _cold_. It’s more like the total absence of warmth, like the sun has never shone on this room. Like God’s love has never blessed it, despite being nestled within the heart of a church. It reaches out for him like icy fingertips, penetrating him and sucking the warmth right from his soul.

He shouts out in bewilderment, his heart quivering like a frightened animal. His feet move without his consent, jerking him backwards. _Away_ , his brain chants like a mantra, _away, away, away!_ He only makes it half a step, stumbling into something warm and solid.

Gasping, Craig whips his head around, forming words he doesn’t speak. Tweek greets him, an easy smile stretched across his lips. Craig feels something powerful rise up at that smile. It’s not relief like it ought to be. Instead it feels more like dread.

Tweek lifts his hand, splaying four fingers and a thumb across his chest. The heat emanating from Tweek combats and consumes the cold inside Craig until it’s too much. It’s burning in a way that Tweek’s touch shouldn’t be. Tweek’s touch should be a blessing. It shouldn’t _hurt_.

As if hearing Craig’s thoughts, Tweek’s lips twitch in a helpless smile. Then suddenly that hand is shoving Craig with an unspeakable strength, catapulting him backwards and into the icy cold room behind him. The room that the sun has never touched, and God has never blessed.

Craig tries to cry out, to reach for him but it’s too late. He’s falling. Into the dark and cold and fear, falling. He stares back at Tweek, reaching for him but there is no floor to stop his descent. Tweek grows further, and further away as the darkness swallows Craig. The light from the door becomes a distant, pinprick star a thousand thousand light years away.

And yet his last thought before he’s entirely consumed by terror is of how the black of Tweek’s eyes had been even darker than the abyss.

 

**

 

Craig’s full body twitch tears him free from the nightmare.

It takes him a few, long moments of panting at the ceiling to find himself. When he does sink back into his body, it’s with a jolt much like the one he’d woken with. He’s clammy with a faint sheen of sweat, and his heart is still thudding.

Puffing softly, he raises his hand, rubbing his forehead with the back of his wrist. It sticks to him slightly, making him feel as gross on the outside as he does on the outside.

Grimacing, he wipes his hand on the comforter and relaxes with a sigh. At least as much as he _can_ relax with that image burnt into his mind.

He’s been having the same dream for a few weeks now. It’s not every night, but it’s almost always the same. Sometimes it’s his mom. Once it was even his sister, but usually it’s Tweek. Regardless of who it is, they always have those terrible eyes, black as black can get. It’s not gaping, empty eye sockets, but more like their eyes have been covered by a slick, obsidian-coloured film that sucks all light in like black holes. It feels like he’ll get pulled in every time he locks eyes with that darkness, even though he’s falling away from it into the void.

Dream logic, he reasons -has reasoned with himself every morning after every dream. There’s no use reading too much into it, even though he wishes they’d stop.

And so, like every other day of his existence, Craig shakes off his doubts and convinces himself that he’s okay. It almost works too, except he takes an extra five minutes to get up that morning, the bite of early October chill making him feel colder than it should.

 

**

Despite his outwardly cold demeanour, Craig isn’t a _total_ asshole. Every morning since Tweek took up residence in his humble home, Craig has always strived to be as quiet as humanly possible in the mornings.

He goes about his usual routine, shaving away the peppering of stubble that’s sprouted overnight. Once done, he steps into a cold shower -always cold, a small penance to say the least, but still he offers it- scrubbing his body followed by his hair. He runs a towel over it, leaving it damp as his fingers skip methodically up his cassock, buttoning it with practiced ease.

The collar goes on last, fitting into place over his throat. It sits like a second skin, a comforting weight that he soon forgets. But every time he puts it on, at least for those first seconds, Craig always feels a small tremble in his heart that reminds him of the first time he donned it. It feels almost physically weightless, but against his soul it feels heavier than all the weight of the world.

The moment passes, as it always does. Craig forgets his flickering thoughts and brushes himself down. He doesn't give himself a once-over in the mirror. There’s no point. All he’ll see are the faint lines of early wrinkles that he shouldn’t have at the age of thirty-one. And he shouldn’t care because physical beauty means nothing when compared to the beauty of the soul, except he does. On some level, the boy who always pretended he didn’t care what people think of him still exists, buried deep beneath the façade. Because he always did care. It was just easier to pretend he didn’t.

Leaving the bathroom, Craig pads quietly down the stairs. Tweek is on a late shift today and he wants to avoid waking him if he can.

He passes through the living room as quiet as a ghost, gliding across the carpet with socked feet. A strong urge to pause at the sofa grips him as he walks past it. He wants to check on Tweek. Check he’s safe from bad dreams. Check he’s comfortable. Check he’s still there.

He doesn’t. Instead he scowls at his ridiculous behaviour and continues on. Staring at people while they sleep is creepy, Craig reminds himself. Questionable feelings aside, Tweek deserves to sleep well without someone looming over him.

Craig moves to the kitchen door, closing it with a soft click behind himself. He fills the percolator, flicking it on and sitting down as it springs to life. He reaches for his phone as he does, scanning the news, but it’s all the same old shit that would make a man of weaker faith question God. Sighing quietly, Craig pockets his phone again, resting his chin on his hand as he briefly considers his dream.

He doesn’t believe in dreams having meaning and all that mumbo-jumbo, but he _does_ think that they’re worth reflecting on. He read once, many years ago that dreams are the brain’s way of processing information. He’d very much liked the idea. Even at the age of ten he’d been fascinated with how stuff works, and the brain offered a whole new frontier of complexity. The article had likened it to a supercomputer and Craig had been very taken with the analogy. Even now, twenty years later Craig likes to indulge himself, pulling apart his dreams to figure out what it was his brain had been trying to process.

Recurring or not, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what his dreams are trying to process. He’s the living embodiment of Catholic guilt, riddled with impure thoughts and feelings for his dearest friend. The darkness that permeates it is temptation.

It sounds about right, but he still isn’t sure. And almost as if summoned by the very power of his thoughts, the door clicks open and Tweek steps though.

Craig doesn’t jump, although he comes close, jerking his eyes away guiltily despite not having any reason to.

Tweek blinks back at him with heavy eyes. “Yo,” he says in a sleep-worn voice.

“Hey. Did I wake you?” Craig asks, keeping his voice low.

“Nah,” Tweek smiles. “Well yeah you did, but you know how little I sleep anyway. Coffee?” He says. As he does he moves up behind Craig and squeezes both his shoulders in an affectionate gesture before moving past him to the coffee pot.

The action makes Craig’s insides flare with warmth. He allows himself the small indulgence, closing his eyes and drawing it into himself.

Little gestures like that are becoming more and more frequent. Tweek has always been a toucher, but recently his gentle, little pats and squeezes and nudges seem to be a constant occurrence. Craig can only assume them to be affection, but he doesn’t really understand what’s prompted it. Not that he hates it. The opposite in fact. It feels good. _Wonderful_ , actually. Like his first gulp of crystal water after forty days wandering the desert.

But, like most things involving Tweek these days, where the beauty lies, the rumble of guilt lurks beneath. Small, sweet gestures become points to obsess over, a constant cycle of hope followed by the crush of remorse. He can’t fool himself into thinking of this as blissfully domestic. He’s a priest and Tweek is his wayward friend. It isn’t any more than that and it _cannot_ be more than that.

The sound of a coffee mug clunking down on the table in front of him rouses him from his thoughts. He follows the hand that holds it to the arm and up to the shoulder, eyes skirting across to the face that greets him with a warm smile that touches his eyes.

“Drink up, Craig,” Tweek says, sitting opposite, nursing his own mug.

Craig nods, picking it up and blowing on it. He takes a small slurp, the burn on his tongue justified punishment for his wandering fantasies.

“You should go back to sleep,” Craig says. “You’re not in until later.”

Tweek wakes his hand. “I’m good. I’m glad I caught you anyway.”

Craig waits for Tweek to finish that sentence but he says nothing more. He offers no reason why he’s glad he caught Craig, which leads him to have the ridiculous, but warming thought that maybe Tweek is just happy to see him.

He ducks his head, a shy smile twitching onto his lips before he manages to smother it back down.

“We need haircuts,” Tweek says suddenly.

Craig looks up from his coffee, then further up as far as he can, noticing the very real risk of his fringe falling into his eyes. Lifting his hand, he rubs it through his undeniably shaggier locks.

“I do. Yours looks-” ‘ _cute’_  almost escapes “-fine.”

“Mine looks like a mad professor’s!” Tweek laughs. “It definitely needs a trim.” For emphasis, he pulls a lock of his curled hair down, yanking it straight. From that Craig can see that it has more length to it than he’d initially thought. “I look like a Goddamn surfer.”

“Snowboarder is probably the better analogy, given that we practically live in the Rockies,” Craig comments.

“Oh God,” Tweek moans. “Don’t remind me. I met this real douchebag winter sports type in Aspen when I was a kid. He constantly went on about having a bad time.”

“Sounds like he scarred you for life,” Craig snorts into his coffee, amused. “The snow sports scene may never know how good you could have been.”

“ _Urgh_ ,” Tweek groans again, louder. “Good. I never want to be an asshole, douchebag sports guy working out to training montages.”

Craig snorts again, his earlier concerns wiped away in the face of their usual nonsensical conversations. Chats with Tweek so often ended up like this. An adventure through vaguely connected stories that somehow make time disappear all together.

At that thought, Craig checks his phone and notes that -as usual- Tweek is making him later than he’d ordinarily like to be. And -as usual- he doesn’t care as much as he should.

He opens his mouth to announce his leaving when Tweek’s hand in his hair suddenly cuts him off. A searing hot flush burns his cheeks as Tweek gently pulls on a few strands of hair, eyes intently focussed on it. Craig stills in response, barely able to breathe.

“You don’t have too many split ends. I could probably trim it for you if you want?” Tweek offers.

Craig remains frozen for a moment. ‘ _Breathing helps,’_ his asshole brain reminds him. It comes in handy though because it forces him to suck in a breath. “Uh, I’m okay,” Craig rasps. He clears his throat with a sharp sound. “I mean. I’ll see my usual hairdresser,” he finishes lamely.

Tweek shrugs but doesn’t take any offence, sitting back down opposite Craig.

“I should go,” Craig says reluctantly, the warmth of the kitchen and its occupant far too tempting to bask in. But, like the priest he should be, Craig shrugs off temptation and replaces it with duty.

He grabs a bagel on the way out, pulls on his polished pair of Oxford shoes, and heads out into the crisp cold of early morning.

 

**

 

‘ _I really should confess some time soon,’_ Craig thinks, not for the first time that week, glancing over at the confession booth.

He should really do a lot of things, lest of all confess, but if he went running off to Father Montgomery every time he sinned he wouldn’t have time to actually do his job. Homosexual thoughts alone would see him living in a confession box on a semi-permanent basis.

Humour doesn’t really excuse it. Craig’s been finding it harder and harder to deal with it lately. Tweek is undeniably attractive and quite possibly the source of stronger feelings that he doesn’t want to dwell on. And mornings like this one don’t help. Mornings where Tweek greets him, and takes care of him. It’s no different to before, but for the past few weeks things _have_ felt different. This morning like most days, he’s tried to reason with himself. Reasoned that he’s lonely, that he hasn’t had anyone’s hands on him in years, that he’s just a sad fucker, but he’s still sure that Tweek has been more overtly affectionate with him lately.

Not that he hasn’t always been sweet. It just feels like _more_ . Like he’s even more attentive, hanging off Craig’s every word. Like he cares even more about what’s on Craig’s mind, or like Craig’s extremely boring life is somehow interesting. It feels good, but it’s dangerous too. He knows he’s growing over-reliant on Tweek. That he’ll move out someday, maybe some time soon. He must have at least nine months of savings behind him now, after all. And he’ll find a lovely girlfriend and look after _her_ (as he _should,_ Craig has to remind himself). He’ll move on with his life. As he should.

As he should.

His hands twitch from where they rest atop the fragile pages of his bible. Looking down, Craig sees the words, but doesn’t really read them. He won’t find the answers he wants to find in there. Ironic really, for a priest.

Sighing, he pulls his hands back, feeling dirty all of a sudden. Like his skin is enough to sully the sacred pages that should offer him the comfort and guidance he needs. They would if he was a real priest. Not a pretender clad in black and collared to his alter.

He wishes so much that he hadn’t felt threatened by Bebe. Wishes even harder that he hadn’t felt a thrill of victory run through him when Tweek said they weren’t meant to be. Wishes hardest of all that he didn’t feel little whispers of hope that slither through his mind worse than the darkness. Of all his transgressions, the stray thoughts that maybe Tweek _feels_ something for him is the worst. It’s not something he should be allowing himself to entertain, but he feels it flush hot through him every single time he wonders if Tweek’s eyes are lingering on him a little longer than usual. It flows through his chest, down into his stomach where it sits like a hot stone in his gut. Sometimes it’s slides lower, and he’s left feeling like a dumbfuck teenager again, horny over nothing at all.

It’s extremely troubling. Years of abstinence have helped to substantially kill off his sex drive. These sudden shivers of excitement rattling through his old bones is both frightening and frustrating. Worse still, Tweek is so damned present, so wonderfully _there_ that the only place Craig can escape to is his church but on entering he feels too unclean to linger there.

‘ _God, give me a sign,_ ’ Craig thinks, looking heavenwards. His faith is paper thin at the best of times and this test seems too cruel. And yet he _felt_ it. He _felt_ God and it felt like love and light and strength. He almost wishes he hadn’t now. He’s the priest who wishes he hadn’t felt God. Hadn’t been given no room to question his faith. All because it means that he truly is destined to be dedicated to this path, never to connect with another human again.

“God, if you’re okay with me being a flaming queer, set the shrub outside on fire,” Craig says quietly with a sardonic smile.

Silence greets him, still but without judgement. He doesn’t need to go outside to know there’s no burning bush. Life isn’t that easy and he had more of a sign than most of his brothers in the clergy could ever hope to receive, the day he met a demon.

Slipping his phone out, Craig checks the time. Evening mass finished just over an hour ago but because Tweek is on the late shift Craig isn’t in a hurry to get home. The usual stragglers stuck around after mass, eagerly offering up confessions but it’s been all quiet since their departure. Until a few months ago, Craig loved the calm stillness for quiet reflection. Now he detests it for it’s relentless probing, forcing him to face tough questions that he’d rather ignore. He tries to tidy, take stock of candles and incense, read his bible, but ultimately all he’s ever doing is prolonging the inevitable. Whenever his hands run out of things to do, his mind takes over and today is no exception.

The creak of the heavy church doors provides a welcome distraction. It’s not unusual for a parishioner to seek closeness to God after work.

Craig’s relief drops away the moment he glances up from his bible. Clad in a thick, red coat, the imposing form of Eric Cartman makes his way between the pews. Revulsion surges in Craig’s throat like bile, thick and hot but something more primal in him shrinks back at the purposeful way the man carries himself. Even before he speaks, Craig can sense it: an odd power-shift in the air, and one that does not favour him. It’s almost as if he’s realised too late that he’s part of a game, and it’s one that he’s not winning.

Almost before it’s too late, Craig reminds himself that this is _his_ church and that _he_ is in charge here. He draws himself up to his full height -an imposing six foot one- and steps away from the altar. Slowly he makes his way towards Eric Cartman, drawing up alongside him.

“Seized by the urge to pray, _my child_?” Craig says with barely concealed sarcasm.

“Hm!” Eric agrees. “But not for me, Father. I’m kind like that,” he says with a theatrical wink.

“I’m sure,” Craig says. Unwilling to play whatever game is in motion, Craig takes another step, intent to make it to his office without letting this man -this _bully_ \- see through him.

“Aren’t you going to ask me who I’m praying _for_?” Eric’s voice rings out, so strong it chases away the silence from the corners.

Pausing, Craig tilts his head but doesn’t deign to look at him fully. “I assume someone who needs it.” _Someone like your poor so-called ‘friend’, Mr. Stanley Marsh,_ Craig thinks, but doesn’t dare say aloud.

“Definitely someone who needs it, Father,” Eric agrees. He pauses just enough so that when he speaks again, it hits Craig even harder than he is prepared for, “Homosexuality in the Catholic Church, now there’s a doozy of a problem for a man of faith to have.”

Craig stops dead in his tracks. He’s got to be on about Stan hasn’t he? _Hasn’t he_?

“If you want to discuss the church’s views on homosexuality, I’d recommend visiting earlier in the day so we can discuss it in my office,” Craig says, still refusing to look at him.

“And what are _your_ views, Father?” Eric says in a voice as thick and slick as oil.

Alarm bells ring throughout Craig’s mind. It’s instinctive, but it’s too late. Somehow he knows that he’s trapped, doomed to ride this conversation out to its completion. “My views are that of the church. Again, I’d be happy to discuss in greater depth if you come back during the day.”

For a moment, Craig dares to hope their dance is finished. Eric Cartman says nothing in response and Craig -forcing an outwards confidence that he doesn’t feel- takes another step away from him.

“You must really hate yourself, huh?” Eric’s voice breaks back through the silence like a knife gliding through gossamer. “Don’t be too hard on yourself though. From what I’ve dug up, the church is full of gays and paedophiles. Sometimes both.”

Craig’s blood runs cold. He spins on the spot, pinning Eric with the nastiest look he can. “Just what are you implying?”

“Hey, hey, don’t look so upset. I know you’re not a kiddy-fiddler,” Eric says, lifting his hands palm-up in mock surrender. “Or if you are, you’ve buried it deep, but from what I can gather you like them college-age at the _least_.”

“What point are you making here?” Craig snarls. Even as he does, he knows he’s losing badly. He’s shown his hand too soon, let his emotion burst free where it should have been locked firmly behind a closed door. He’s shown his belly; just the briefest flash, but that’s all a man like Eric Cartman needs to pounce and rip him open.

“I’m no gay, but Thomas Harper is looking _good,_ man,” Eric says in a disarmingly friendly tone. “Oops, I mean, _Father_.”

At the mere mention of the name, Craig knows it’s game over. His throat goes dry, even as a pathetic, little part of him quivers with a tremble of excitement over the notion that Thomas looks well.

“Thomas is someone I haven’t spoken to since before I became a priest,” Craig says, voice tight. He refuses to give any more away than that. Eric Cartman has him nailed, but fuck if he’ll give him a single drop more than he already has.

“Oh I know that, Father,” Eric nods. “I’m not for a moment suggesting that you had. It’s just funny isn’t it? Much as the church would like to make you believe it, you can’t just _switch off_ homosexuality can you? Or _can_ you? I’m assuming based on science and all that shit, but _you’d_ be the best person to answer wouldn’t you?” Eric smiles. When Craig doesn’t respond, the smile drops from Eric’s face and his voice drops with it, settling into a colder, deeper tone. “ _Wouldn’t you_?”

It takes every bit of Craig’s willpower to keep his gaze fixed on Eric, unwavering and calm. He refuses to betray the tumultuous thoughts, or the low level panic that’s constricting his heart uncomfortably.

“So let me guess, this is your trump card? You threaten me and I give up what you want from your friend’s confession?” He asks.

“I’m not _threatening_ , Father. To imply that is to slander my good name. I am simply a seeker of the truth and I am offering to keep a certain piece of information safe in exchange for another piece of information.”

“You watch too much Game of Thrones,” Craig says, forcing himself to sound dismissive. “You’re not a spymaster, you run a low profile, sensationalist blog followed by a handful of Neo-nazis and alt-right assholes.” It doesn’t make as much impact as he would have liked, but Eric Cartman at least looks vaguely surprised. “Yeah, I researched you. You like your so-called _truths_ ? I haven’t done anything that would compromise my position as a priest. Anything I _may_ have done before taking my vows is known and accepted by the church. So you got nothing.”

“Nothing?” Eric echoes. He looks contemplative for a moment, before a slow smile spreads across his wide lips. “So your congregation know, do they?”

“It’s not relevant,” Craig says, but he can already feel dread slithering through him like icy claws digging in and bleeding into him.

“You think?” Eric says, throwing his hands out and gesturing at the empty pews. “They’re all such liberal thinkers round here? You’re lucky. Where I come from, they still like getting out the _God hates Fags_ signs- excuse the language. How lucky you are to live amongst such an _accepting_ community, happy to let a gay priest teach their children about Jesus, and preach to them about the teachings of the Bible. Remind me, what _does_ the bible say about homosexuality, Father?”

Craig wants to bite back, to raise his voice and condemn this man, this _beast_ who dares to enter his church and make such threats. But they’re not empty threats. People talk. People _judge_. Some would remain loyal, would forgive him for his past. But others? He can think of a few. The conservatives who’d draw their arms around their young sons, and write strongly-worded emails of concern to the diocese. The redneck closet cases who would call him a perverted faggot to his face. The pitying old women who would pat his arm and tell him that they’ll pray for him in that terrible, patronising tone reserved for dogs and small children.

All it would take is a ripple of doubt in his congregation. A ripple is enough to spread and grow until his position becomes untenable and the diocese are forced to move him on. Away from his home. Away from _Tweek_.

His heart clenches painfully at the thought.

“I’m not giving you what you want, Mr. Cartman,” Craig says, his voice taught and gravelly from strain. “I swore a vow and I cannot break it.”

Eric clicks his tongue. “Ah, fuck. I hoped that would work, but I guessed it wouldn’t. Honestly, I don’t get it, but I almost respect it.”

“So what now? You leave me the fuck alone?” Craig snaps.

“Sorry, but no can do,” Eric shrugs. “You can give me exactly what I want to finally get what I need, and you’re gonna give it to me.”

“I’m never doing that,” Craig says firmly.

“You might want to reconsider. I’m giving you a week from today to change your mind, else I may just start a little rumour. If you still refuse after that, I’ll start leaking pictures.”

“ _Pictures?_ ” Craig says, stunned. Even _he_ doesn’t have pictures except for that one, precious memory that he can’t let go.

“The internet is a fantastic place, isn’t it? Funny what kind of shit you can find- oh, you can thank your friend for that one. Tweek has been _such_ a help. I might not have found Thomas if he hadn’t gone poking his nose around.”

Craig reels on the spot, feeling like he’s received a sucker punch to the face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Eric laughs almost goodnaturedly. As if he’s not ruthlessly threatening all of the safety and comfort of Craig’s life for his own gain. “ _Facebook_ , Father. The social network. It’s a modern day miracle- get it? Miracle?” When Craig doesn’t laugh, he spreads his hands like he’s talking to a toddler. “Anyway, tell Tweek _thanks_ from me. And maybe suggest that he changes his settings back to private. _Anyone_ can see his activity.”

Craig doesn’t respond. His mind is full of thoughts -too many, too many to count- buzzing, and filling his mind with static.

Eric makes to leave, pausing by the doors. “Might want to rethink your living arrangements too. Looks a bit _odd_ , a priest living with another adult man. People might start thinking you’re _funny_.”

The door swings back into place once Eric has left. It closes with a thud that reverberates around the church.

Craig barely registers it. His mind is too full.

 

**

He heads straight home after that, locking the church up and storming back to the rectory. It’s cold, chilling him to the bone as his smart shoes thump heavily upon the sidewalk with each brisk step. The air feels heavy and frigid, as if it’s full of snow, but autumn leaves still hang on the trees, painting their boughs in blazing colours. It’s enough to make Craig shake from the chill, hand trembling as he retrieves his key and unlocks the rectory door.

Tweek isn’t home yet. Craig can tell from the stillness around him. He hadn’t expected him to be home yet anyway, and truthfully he’s glad that he isn’t because Craig doesn’t honestly know how he’d react. It helps him to release the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding in, whistling between his clenched teeth like wind through reeds.

Craig takes a moment, frozen in time and space within the confines of the entryway before something clicks in his brain and he’s all motion again. He sweeps into the living room, scanning it with narrowed eyes until he finds what he’s looking for. Kneeling down, he plucks his laptop up from under the coffee table and sits heavily in his favourite chair. He snaps it open, uncaring about the low charge, and immediately calls up Facebook.

Tweek hasn’t logged out. Under ordinary circumstances Craig would never dream of breaching his privacy, but given that Tweek has stomped all over _his_ he considers it fair dues. It only takes him seconds to find what he’s looking for. Tweek’s page is empty but for a couple of comments he’s made on one other person’s status: Thomas Harper.

The sight of his name makes something inside Craig crack. There’s a _realness_ to it suddenly that wasn’t there before, where he could close his eyes and pretend it’s nothing more than a bad dream or mistaken identity. It serves to make him angrier, a soft, wounded snarl rumbling in the back of his throat. He feels violated by the one he trusted most. Vulnerable. Isolated with nowhere to escape to. Tweek’s brazen display of digging into his past hurting him in a sharp, deep pain. A twisting knife settling between his lungs and next to his heart.

Driven on by anger, pain, and grim curiosity, Craig clicks on chat history. There’s only one, but it’s long: a back and forth over several days. _Weeks_ even. At least two, maybe three. His ex and his ridiculous crush chattering on and on about _him_ . It leaves him feeling naked, stripped bare and exposed, the anger draining out of him and leaving him cold. He feels sick but he doesn’t stop scanning, scrolling through walls of text. It’s as if they’re dissecting him piece by piece, and then offering those pieces as trade. Pieces of his life shared like they’re this year’s hottest collector’s item. Tales of his life now exchange for tidbits about his life _before._ Thomas calls it ‘the incident’ and Tweek seems to echo it like it makes sense. As if ‘ _incident_ ’ is easier to write than ‘brutal family massacre’.

Craig shoves the laptop away, letting it clatter to the floor. He reaches for his cigarettes, lighting one with a shaky hand and sucking in a heavy drag. His lungs constrict and his head fills with a dull buzz that takes the edge off, but it’s nothing like what he _really_ wants. It’s a short-lived sticky plaster where he wants a blanket to smother his brain. Ideally until it stops functioning altogether. Just falls out of his ears with a splat.

His jaw constricts, the cigarette pinching between his clenched teeth. His eyes fix on the front door. The convenience store is a two minute walk away. In four he can be forgetting this. Forgetting the miserable, steaming pile of shit that forms his life. Maybe even never wake up. The church wouldn’t be happy, but it wouldn’t be like it’s _intentional._ Not in any way they could prove.

He lights another cigarette, wrestling with his darker thoughts. He tells himself that drinking himself into a coma is cowardly, but it just sounds _so_ damn appealing. He’s struggling to think of anything else beyond it. It’s so much more inviting than this shitty, silent living room with its mismatched sofas and the lack of anything that indicates he even exists in this space. Refusing it feels like punishment. He’s always fucking punishing himself and for what? Simply _being_? Is he really so loathsome in the eyes of God that his entire existence should feel like an endless test?

Jerking himself almost physically from his increasingly desperate thoughts, Craig does the only thing he can think of, clasping his hands together and bowing his head. He curls into himself, praying aloud, letting the low drone of his own voice dull his jolting, jarring thoughts. It takes a long time, the continuous flow of holy words numbing him. It quietens his brain, but it doesn’t reach his heart.

Tweek finds him there nearly fifty minutes later, head braced over his knees and hands white with the strain of their grip. The cheerful tone in his greeting drops into a worried gasp and Craig hears the thumps of hurried footsteps towards his crumpled form. He doesn’t open his eyes, fantasising that he’s far away inside the blackness behind his eyes.

“Craig! Craig what’s happened?” Tweek says, kneeling at his side. His hands are on Craig for only a moment before Craig jerks away as if Tweek is burning.

“Craig?” Tweek whispers, sounding afraid. “Talk to me.”

At the tone, the nasty flare of anger stokes up once again inside Craig’s gut. He pulls himself up, both metaphorically as emotion floods back in and physically, back aching as he unfolds.

“Talk?” He says in a hoarse voice, scratchy from over-use. “Why should I talk to you, Tweek? Why would I do something like that?”

“I-” Tweek is startled by that, looking taken aback. “Craig _what_ is going on?”

“What’s going on is Eric Cartman turned up at my church today. Except this time he knows I’m gay. And how does he know _that_ Tweek?” Craig says harshly.

Tweek rocks back on his heels, opening and closing his mouth like a floundering fish. Craig doesn’t give him time to hunt around for an answer.

“Fucking _Facebook,_ Tweek! You went digging around into my life on fucking Facebook and now that slimy piece of shit knows all about my time with Thomas,” his voice rises with each word, growing louder until he’s shouting. He can’t remember the last time he shouted. Right now he couldn’t care less.

Tweek flinches back, face painted with horror. “But… but I was set to private,” he says meekly.

“Then he fucking _hacked_ you, Tweek! I don’t know, but you led him straight to Tom! And _why_ ? Because you were sticking your nose in where you had no fucking _right_ to!”

“I- I-” Tweek flounders.

“You _what_ , Tweek?” Craig says. “ _What?_ ”

“The church- ngh,” He twitches, stress making him tic. “They church know so-”

“The church does, but my congregation don’t. And when they find out what do you think will happen? They’ll hang rainbow flags from the rafters?”

“I don’t-”

“No, of course they fucking won’t. They’ll voice their concerns to the diocese office and they’ll move me on to keep them sweet,” Craig interrupts him.

Tweek’s eyes bug a little at that, a stricken look turning his face pale. “Move you on?”

“Yeah. Make the problem go away and become some other diocese’s issue to manage.”

“But you do such a- nggh,” Tweek breaks off to twitch. He’s told Craig about it before. Said it only happens when he’s really stressed these days. Craig wishes he had enough sympathy in him to feel bad. “You do such a good job. Everyone really likes you-”

“Some of them might be okay with it because it’s in my past, but others won’t. Others will question me. How I am with their _sons._ The fact that I live with _you_ ,” Craig says with absolute certainty. The strain begins to show in his voice as the anger drains away and leaves him exhausted. Beneath the heat of his rage he’s cold and exposed all over again. Naked and cut apart.  “Why’d you have to dig, Tweek. What did you possibly hope to gain by digging into my past like that?” He says, but it comes out more like a plea.

Tweek's eyes glisten, suddenly full of unshed tears. He reaches for Craig’s hands, kneeling at his feet like a disciple, gripping onto him like a desperate man gripping onto hope. “I just wanted to know you, Craig. I wanted to know you.”

“Know me?” Craig says, hoarse. “I share my _life_ with you.”

“I know,” Tweek whimpers, pulling Craig’s hands to his face, nuzzling them like a naughty dog desperate for his master’s forgiveness. “I know but I feel like I still can’t always see the real you. The you beneath the uniform. I wanted to know more about your life.”

“You should have _asked,_ ” Craig bites back, the wound of betrayal too deep to soothe with pleading words and affectionate gestures.

“I know I should have. I know, but I was scared,” Tweek says, barely above a whisper.

“Scared of _what_?” Craig says, lost. “Me?”

“No!” Tweek squeaks. “No not you. I’d never be scared of you, Craig. But I’m scared that- ngh- scared that I don’t know every part of you. I feel like I’ve known you my whole life but I haven’t and there’s this whole, huge part of your life that you turned your back on. But- but it’s still _you_ . And I want to know _all_ of you. Every, little bit of you. Even the bad. And you don’t talk about yourself much and when you do, you never really tell me about your feelings or your thoughts. You just scratch the surface and I want to see all of it.”

Tweek breaks off, breathless, mouth moving in unspoken words for a half second after the words stop. Craig remains still, locked into a stunned silence at Tweek’s outpouring of emotion. Fear, shame and a dash of hope swirl in his belly in a sickening mixture at Tweek’s words. At how _romantic_ they’d sounded. Despite the fact that they couldn’t possibly be.

Craig wants to ask him why he cares so fucking much, but he’s terrified of the answer. Instead he sits there in silence, only just about managing to breathe.

As if sensing Craig’s fear, Tweek’s face softens and he squeezes Craig’s hands gently. “I don’t know why I feel this way. I know it’s not fair to you, but I can’t help it. You mean _everything_ to me. At first I thought it was just gratitude because you were there when I lost everything. Because you saved me. But it’s more than that. I feel like I’ve been looking for you all my life. It’s like the space next to me was always empty and I didn’t realise it until I found you in it. I’m sorry, Craig. I’m sorry.”

Craig swallows, throat tight and dry. His heart races within his chest as the words sink in. Words that feel increasingly difficult to justify as platonic. Words that resonate with him deeper than any prayer ever has.

Because he feels the same way. He’s felt it twice before: the moment he realised he was in love with Thomas, and the moment he felt God’s presence in the room where he met Tweek. It’s a fundamental sense of _rightness_. Of something almost supernatural: a cosmic alignment or an impossible puzzle clicking into place.

And still he can’t speak. He’s too afraid of what will happen next. His life is nothing more than a man living on autopilot until God takes him, but right now he needs to take the wheel. Make a decision. But the outcomes either way are too massive to comprehend.

Tweek seems to understand somehow. Understand that Craig can’t move or think or speak. So he makes a decision for him, rising to his feet and leaning over Craig, suddenly small in his ugly, floral, beloved old chair.

And then, with a determination that looks oddly out of place, Tweek reaches out for Craig’s face, tips his head back, and leans forward to press their lips together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow burn is taking seventeen fucking chapters to kiss. 
> 
> Hi! I’m so sorry for the delay. Snowed under with work :(


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